A Kindled Man
by MoldyMangoes
Summary: Sherlock attempts navigating the murky waters towards a relationship with Molly. Too bad the biggest obstacles are Molly herself and the inability to know when the end doesn't exactly justify the means. (Follows 'A Creative Man') Rated T until further notice.
1. Chapter 1

AN: Set one month after A Creative Man. First off, I warn and apologize for the lack of John Watson in this chapter. I'd also like to warn that this is going to be a more romancy fic than Creative Man (Sherlock is wanting Molly after all). I'm sorry in advance for disappointing anyone.

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* * *

><p>.<p>

The sunlit sky was dimming quickly when Molly stepped out of Barts Hospital and into the air that was hazy with drizzling, sporadically disbursed rain. Low hanging clouds drifted with the wind that whipped her hair around her face.

Gray was beginning to overtake the rosy orange glow and the buildings it lay over. Molly adjusted her bag and struggled opening her umbrella as she prepared for the early autumn storm that lurked closer.

She'd gotten as far as crossing the street and rounding a corner before crashing into six feet of consulting detective.

Apparently, neither of them had seen it coming. Molly's umbrella had received a sudden gust of wind at the wrong angle and blew itself uselessly backwards while Sherlock dropped a plastic bag, contents spilling across the sidewalk.

He eyed the mess. "Hello, Molly," he greeted neutrally as he crouched to gather up the dozens of small evidence baggies that had tumbled out. Molly tucked the broken umbrella under an arm and stooped to help.

"I'm so sorry," she said hurriedly. "Are these for a case? I hope I didn't damage anything." She pulled one out of a puddle.

"They're quite well sealed. And no, a person's life isn't depending on the study of tree bark, I'm afraid."

Molly picked up one of the baggies. "'Tea Leaved Willow - Salix phylicifolia'?"

"A native tree in Scotland," said Sherlock, taking the piece of bark and stashing it with the others. They finished as the rain started pouring harder, bouncing off the asphalt. "I need to get these to the lab."

Nodding, Molly pulled the hood of her coat protectively over her head. She smiled at him before continuing toward the tube station and Sherlock continued to Barts. He stopped when she didn't follow. She stopped when she realized he _wanted_ her to follow.

"Oh." Sherlock looked at her. "Your shift ended. You must have traded with-"

"-Jonathan. Yeah." Molly fiddled with her umbrella as if it wasn't a lost cause. "He'll let you in the lab, you know."

For a reason Molly couldn't comprehend, Sherlock looked a little pained saying, "I don't suppose you'd want to-"

"-Nope. No lives on the line, you said."

"...No, of course not."

"Besides, I'm still cross about last week."

Sherlock tilted his face skyward, letting the rain pelt his skin as he settled into a quick think.

Molly waited for a false compliment, more out of habit than anything else. He'd not stooped to such a level with her in a very long time, but she'd been conditioned when Sherlock Holmes was concerned. Another gust of wind blasted through her and she shivered bodily.

Sherlock looked in the direction of Barts and back at Molly, water dripping from the ends of his ever dampening hair. He seemed to come up with a conclusion to his internal struggle as he tried protecting his bag in the inside folds of his coat. "I'm assuming you're going home?" he asked, coming to her side and beginning a steady walk along the stretch of road. Molly thought it was terribly strange for him, offering to see her to the station.

Except there was the time he'd walked her home a month prior. That night had been all sorts of bizarre.

"Home," Molly confirmed, trying not to feel a little bit boring at having nowhere else to go. "You don't have to walk with me to the station. It's starting to pour." As she said this, a hard sheet of rain swept over them.

Sherlock wiped the dripping hair from his eyes with futility. "Who said I was seeing you to the tube?" And he pulled her to the sidewalk just as he spied a cab, tires rolling through the flooded street like waterwheels. It pulled over before his hand was even halfway in the air.

Later, as they were clambering wetly out of the taxi, Molly was even more surprised to see Sherlock follow her to the building, still protecting his bag. Assuming he was coming up to wait out the rain, she gave a small mental sigh of relief that she'd had the foresight to clean and tidy.

"How've you not gone broke from cab fare?" she half shouted, half laughed, over the pounding of rain while struggling with her key.

"I've had money ever since John made me charge for cases."

He didn't seem to pick up the slight tease in his seriousness, and Molly didn't follow up with asking why he'd never thought to request payment before. But she knew he didn't accept payment from the police. Perhaps they had an understanding; seeing as Sherlock was a little more than slippery with the law.

After getting inside, safe from the storm, she noticed that a pair of knickers lay in the hallway, the bright white and floral pattern contrasting sharply against the dark wood of the floor. Molly stopped abruptly and Sherlock thudded gently against her back. He looked over her head.

"Are those yours?" he asked with no hint of inflection.

She was a little frozen. "I - yes."

"Dropped while doing the laundry, maybe?"

"...No."

Sherlock was still for a moment before bursting into movement, swinging sharply around the creaking banister and launching up the stairs. Molly, alarmed, ran to catch up.

She found him stopped before her door, gaze intent, holding a warning hand up as she approached. "Stop. Wait there," he whispered.

"How'd you know this was my-"

"Shh."

She followed his line of sight to see the door to her flat partially ajar, causing a sick feeling of dread to simmer in her belly. Sherlock pushed the door open with his foot. He straightened. His brow lowered in a way that said _'I've examined the situation; conclusion: Not Good._' Then he let out a long sigh and fished for his mobile, calling a number long on speed dial.

Molly waited anxiously, glancing between Sherlock and her front door, inching closer with anxiety. The action didn't escape the detective who held his hand up again to stop her, fingers closing over her shoulder when she persisted.

The line on the other end finally picked up. "Lestrade," Sherlock bit out before the Detective Inspector could announce himself. "I need you at Molly's. There's been a-" He glanced at her almost balefully when she snapped her head to face him, "-a burglary," he finished lamely.

_"What!?"_

Molly wasn't sure who shouted that louder; Lestrade or herself, but she was making a valiant effort to push Sherlock bodily aside. "Just get here, fast, if you please!" he snapped into his phone before dropping it to the floor and locking an arm around her.

"Let me go!" she hissed. "A burglary, are you bloody serious?"

Sherlock was unmovable. "Stop, stop, stop, Molly, there could still be someone in there. Most likely not, seeing the number of foot prints leaving out are the same as the ones going in, including the obvious dolly tracks, but-"

"Sherlock!"

"Just let me check first, alright?" He shook her, pushing her back a step. She acquiesced, no small amount of reluctance given as he released her and bent to retrieve his phone before marching in, all confident strides and keen attention. Molly could hear him checking the bathroom before her patience caved and she finally peered inside.

It was empty.

The entire flat.

As if she'd never lived there to begin with.

The horrendously blue sofa was gone. There used to be an old wooden rocking chair with a quilt draped over the back. Books, lamps, and photographs. The boxes she'd not gotten around to sorting. Gone. Nothing but muddy boot prints covered the hard wood floors.

Another sick twisting of her gut caused her to cry out, "Toby?"

No cooing meow was there to greet her.

She didn't feel like crying, she noticed, being too busy stuck in a state of stupefaction, where the sounds of Sherlock's footsteps faded in and out of her ears and she was bound to wake up from what was obviously a _nightmare._ Her bag dropped from her arm with a wet plunk next to Sherlock's stupid load of bark. Dazed, she made her way into her bedroom. What was supposed to be her bedroom. Where her bed should have been, with all of her most personal items and mementos tucked neatly beneath it.

She was met with nothing but Sherlock, standing in a cold and empty room.

He turned and met her eyes. She couldn't read them and she didn't try, didn't think to. He held out a small square card of paper to her. On one side was white with the sharp, contrasting, hateful print of shoe tread.

The other side was a picture of her ten year old self and her father.

She swallowed and tried to form words. Nothing seemed to come out of her. Sherlock stood before her, wide-eyed and twitchy-fingered before his arms came gingerly up around her as she continued to stare at the photograph. Then her face was pressed into a damp shirt and he was saying, "I'll find who did this, Molly. I'll get it back, I'll get it all back."

They only sounded like words. She heard them, but she couldn't listen. They didn't make sense. They didn't register.

There was a crescendo of loud feet storming into the flat. Sherlock's grip on her tightened a little before recognizing Lestrade calling out for them.

"In here," Sherlock answered, the deepness of his voice reverberating against Molly's ear. She managed to collect herself enough to pull away with a sense of _dizzy_. Did she look dizzy? Was that why Sherlock was hovering so close? Couldn't be.

"Oh, Molly," Lestrade sighed apologetically when he found them in what was once her bedroom.

"I'm fine," she claimed weakly.

Lestrade drew her into his arms anyway for a brief hug. Sherlock backed away to examine what were bare walls and bare floors and bare damnable everything. "Do you have any idea who might've done this?" Lestrade asked.

"No."

"Clearly someone had been watching her," Sherlock said. He was leaning down and snapping a picture of a footprint with his phone. "She's been living here slightly less than two months."

Molly could only nod in confirmation.

"Could Tom have done this?" Lestrade asked, despite the year gone by since the breakup. "Can you tell by the foot print, maybe?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Wrong shoe size, which wouldn't matter. An operation like this would have been done by professional movers. They used proper equipment. No damage to the flat, so obviously they took care."

"They took my stuff."

Sherlock slipped his phone back into his pocket. "Yes, well, they won't be keeping it. Lestrade, I'll need a sample from the boot prints. I'll need to come back here, so don't let anyone in. I don't need anyone messing anything up."

Molly was still feeling sick and growing tired. She suddenly wanted to be alone, but staying within the confines of this place was no longer an option.

Lestrade asked her more questions in order to get a police report started. Sherlock walked around the flat, impatiently observing the walls and door jambs and checking windows.

Finally, when they were finished, Lestrade asked, "Is there anyone I can call for you?"

"I need a hotel," Molly said, wondering at her ability to keep hold of herself for this long.

Sherlock spun around. "A hotel? What do you need a hotel for?"

Harshly, Molly ran her hand over her face and rubbed her forehead, saying tersely, "Well, I'm obviously not sleeping here tonight, now am I? They took my bed and my _toothbrush._ Who does that?"

Sherlock had the grace to look contrite, "I thought - I mean to say, Baker Street does have an extra room, you know. Fair warning, the bed might need dusting."

Molly didn't know what to say. Even Lestrade was speechless, but the look he was casting at Sherlock seemed mutely suspicious.

"There's a toothbrush," Sherlock added hastily. "Unopened, new, obviously. It would be rather unhygienic to share a toothbrush. I wouldn't call it five star, but Mrs. Hudson does make good tea in the mornings."

Molly took a breath and turned her gaze towards her feet. The offer was tempting, if not surreal. The man she had finally gotten over was showing a regard she never knew he possessed. And it was directed at her for nearly the past month. He was being kind again and something about it was unsettling, pushing the boundaries that time had allowed her to mentally set for him in terms of just how much he could control her life - her heart, really.

If he ever had control of that again, she was sure he would break it.

Molly rocked on her heels, feeling the squish of wet sneakers beneath the balls of her feet before she looked back up. "No. Thank you, Sherlock, but I can get a hotel. I think I'd rather prefer to be alone, actually."

Sherlock obviously disagreed, Molly judged from the tightness in his jaw. He cleared his throat and looked at Lestrade, meaningfully. _Privacy, if you don't mind._

Lestrade rolled his eyes and took the hint. "I'll just wait outside, then," he informed, backing out with a last minute hard stare before closing the door with a soft click.

"You can't mean that," was the first thing Sherlock said. "Contrary to what you might think, I can see you, and this is far from okay for an emotional person."

"I'm not emotional," said Molly. "Do I look emotional?"

"You're in a mild state of shock and you've gone unusually pale. And yes, you are emotional. You're an emotional person, Molly."

She hadn't noticed that he had stepped into her personal space until his hands came around hers and held them gently. She realized they'd been shaking, still clutching the photograph.

"I don't think you should be alone, is all," he urged quietly, carefully.

There was a familiar burning sensation in her eyes, throat tightening up, so she bit her lip to keep it from betraying her to the very true notion that yes, Molly Hooper is an emotional person. She swallowed. Gave in to Sherlock's plead, because dammit, he never pleads.

Molly nodded imperceptibly.

"Alright?" Sherlock asked.

She nodded, stronger. "Yeah. I'm still angry with you for last week, though."

"As you should be. Come on, Lestrade will give us a ride. I'd ask if you need to pack anything, but, well..."

Her eyes screwed up a little more.

Sherlock backpedaled. "Sorry. Not good. Got it."

And they left the room that Molly used to call her own.

* * *

><p>It was only late evening when they arrived at Baker Street.<p>

The first thing Sherlock did was start a fire in the hearth. He didn't say anything afterwards, simply departing and leaving Molly to stand a little aimlessly in the sitting room. She shed her coat, hanging it on the rack by the door and her shoes went to dry next to the fire. She sat next to them, staring into the flames and feeling as if she should be thinking about what she'd do next, but her focus was shot. Dealing with insurance was going to be horrible, she just knew it.

Thoughts continuously lingered on material possessions that meant something. Her laptop, while nice, could be replaced no problem, but jewelry that used to be her mother's would be impossible to regain or substitute. Corded braids made with friends in school would never be seen again. Photographs, but one, were all gone. Every moment, when she thought about what was lost, she remembered two more monetarily worthless items and couldn't help but feel sick at the waste of it. Most of her things quite literally held no value to anyone but herself.

She tried not to think of Toby; if he was taken, or killed, or hurt, or even traipsing around London lost and scared and scavenging for food.

The whole situation was absolutely violating.

The only consolation really was her current state of detachment. It allowed her the ability to stand up, walk to the kitchen, and set the kettle.

She was still in the kitchen, bare footed, ends of her trousers soaked cold, when Sherlock appeared again in pajamas and a house coat. He looked back and forth between her and the mugs she'd set on the counter, a bundle of clothes in his arms. He held them out to her. "Feel free to use the shower, if you'd like. The sheets in John's – the spare room – are fresh. Mrs. Hudson must've changed them, no doubt during one of her cleaning frenzies."

Molly accepted the clothes gratefully. She didn't want to shower, really, not having energy for it. And it felt strangely imposing staying the night, never mined the intimidation of using Sherlock Holmes's shower. Leaving the tea out, she excused herself to wash her face.

In the bathroom, she cracked a smile at the unopened, propitiously placed toothbrush beside the sink. Her face turned a shade of red when she unraveled the bundle of clothes and her underwear, the pair that had been lying in the hallway of her building, rolled out.

Molly chose not to dwell on where Sherlock had been keeping them.

She changed into the rather plain draw string sweats and tee shirt, all ridiculously over-sized, and she suddenly felt a new flood of embarrassment. Because there she was, Molly Hooper, in Sherlock's bathroom, wearing his clothes, at the mercy of his hospitality. Everything she now owned in the same flat, because what did she own except the few possessions in a gargantuan purse?

If she had been daydreaming about this years ago, she might've thought that some enjoyment could be taken from such a situation, burglary be damned. Now she felt suffocated, wanting to escape, to skip tea, to avoid Sherlock, to just throw herself beneath a blanket and be alone and forget this whole entire thing ever _happened._

She chose to brush her teeth for fifteen minutes instead.

When she felt brave enough to venture back out, Sherlock was sitting by the fire next to a full tray of tea and biscuits. He looked up at her. Up and down at her, assessing her, until she grew visibly uncomfortable and he averted his gaze to the fire.

When she sat down in the chair across him, he indicated to the tray. "Make yourself at home, Molly."

"I – Thank you," she said, sounding awkward in the quiet of the flat. Accepting the tea served to keep her from nervous hand wringing; otherwise, she sat ramrod straight, tense, and completely unable to relax.

Sherlock noticed. "You're uncomfortable," he observed, his face alight in the orange glow of the flames that pooled in the disconcerted lines of his face.

Molly stared into her cup. "Can't help it. Everything I had is lost. There's going to be so much to do now."

"Material possessions. Useless. You'll get over it soon enough, as most of it can all be replaced, I'm sure."

There was the Sherlock charm, rearing its handsome, unsympathetic head. "You may not care much for sentiment, Sherlock, but I do. I can't replace the most important things I had. They were just ...things, but they were _my_ things, with _my_ memories tied to them."

"Memories are stored here," he tapped his temple. "You haven't lost those."

"I know that," Molly replied, willing for Sherlock to understand and giving up the hope the second she thought it. "I know. It's the violation that hurts the most; that someone went into my home and just... It only meant something to me. Who is going to get any financial gain from an old yearbook? Or a stupid old band shirt? I don't even know if they took my cat, or if he's run off to who knows where, or, or where I'm supposed to begin to..."

She felt the tears building. She was doing so well, not letting any of this get to her, especially in front of Sherlock. She didn't want to break down now. It only worsened when the indifference of his countenance faded into something more apprehensive, because _why,_ she thought, _would Sherlock care?_ He wouldn't. He refuses cases like hers. Their being friends didn't exclude her from his idea of boring. It wouldn't. Would it?

_Staying here,_ Molly thought, _what a terrible idea._

Not knowing what else to do, but knowing she didn't want to stay, Molly placed her untouched tea on the tray and stood. Sherlock, watching, seemingly unsettled by her behavior or his own inability to say the right thing, stood as well. "Molly-"

"It's getting late," she croaked, trying to get the words out before her throat choked up. "Thank you for the-the tea and you know, letting me stay the night. I'm just -" she gestured to the door, inching away, steps becoming stronger the more her eyes stung, "I'm going to just get some sleep and I'll be out of here by morning."

"You don't have to-"

"-Goodnight," She interrupted again, with a forced smile in an attempt to add amiable finality.

She was nearly at the door when Sherlock took a few steps forward and maintained his need for the last word, coming to what seemed a sudden realization tinged with disbelief. "You don't think I'll help you."

Molly stilled, hand on the door.

He continued. "I told you I would get it all back. I meant it. You've done more for me than anyone. No questions asked. In a world of variables, you've been a constant. And in a time when you need help, you think I won't give it."

Her mouth tightened to keep from shaking. This was ridiculous.

"Have I really lost the trust you once had in me?"

Molly had to screw her eyes shut when he said that. Because what other answer could she give him besides 'yes, I don't trust you'?

"I trust you well enough," she said, half lying, voice reduced to something breathless and resigned. "But I'm tired, Sherlock. Goodnight."

The door closed softly behind her and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Her feet dragged her to the bed that wasn't hers to cry herself to sleep. It was remarkably uncomfortable, but that was okay.

She was still a little angry, anyway.

* * *

><p><em>Sherlock had not slept in three days and had not eaten in five. During that time, he had observed a body, questioned a grieving widow, questioned a hotel manager, questioned a suspect who was too stupid to be a suspect, ran countless tests, ran ten blocks, found the real murder weapon (an old shirt), found the perpetrator's name embroidered on the murder weapon, and then explained to New Scotland Yard exactly why the victim had not hung himself from his hotel ceiling fan.<em>

_Oh, and he also called Molly Hooper stupid, scatter-brained, and weak._

_It started out innocently enough. Molly offered to help with some tests, which he accepted gladly. She stayed for hours beyond her shift and her wakefulness was actually rather admirable for a normal human._

_"I need you to decant those blood samples, in these tubes. Add the saline solution to the remaining plasma." Sherlock requested, quickly replacing slide after slide in the microscope and jotting findings down on the notebook beside him._

_"How much?"_

_"Ah," Sherlock glanced at the notebook. "Thirty milliliters."_

_Molly had done exactly as he'd asked. She even brought up five incredibly large, heavy books on blood work supposedly containing specific research over the last fifty years. It was vital, he had said. She struggled a little getting the books on the table and one had fallen with a loud bang, effectively causing Sherlock's concentration to snap._

_"If you could endeavor to lift a little more weight than your average six year old, Molly, perhaps lifting a simple book wouldn't pose such a problem for you. May I suggest less time on internet dating sites?"_

_Molly handled it with as much grace as she could. "Get your own books next time, then," she replied calmly._

_They continued on with work until, at three-o-clock in the morning, Molly presented the plasma tests to Sherlock so that he could do whatever he planned in that complex, ruthless brain of his._

_Sherlock stared at the tubes. He stared so long and so burningly, Molly wondered if he had run inside his mind, digging up useful information. Or maybe he learned how to sleep with his eyes open. Either way, she was becoming uncomfortable._

_"Twenty milliliters, Molly," he finally growled, tired blue eyes attempting to melt glass._

_"No," she objected. "You said thirty. I remember exactly, you said thirty. That's thirty." She really didn't want to deal with a tired, impatient Sherlock. Not at this hour. It didn't help that she'd never seen him so simmeringly pissed off before._

_He ran a hand over his face. "Twenty, Molly. I'd like to think that you weren't so stupid that I would have to repeat myself like most of the incompetents I've had to deal with on this case, but I am, occasionally, wrong."_

_Molly gaped at him. He wasn't right._

_Was he right?_

_She began to second guess herself in the face of his cruelty. She opened her mouth to defend herself again._

_"Oh, don't bother," Sherlock interrupted. "If you plan on being scatter-brained for the remainder of these tests, then you might as well go home and stop wasting my time."_

_Molly drew herself up and said with a shaking chin, "Thirty."_

_There was a moment of silence before Sherlock, in a fantastic display of maturity, snatched one of the tubes and flung it across the lab. It shattered against the wall and broke nearly every bio-hazard rule that Molly could think of. She jumped, making a rather frightened noise. She met Sherlock's cold eyes boring into hers and he was suddenly the man in the morgue again. The violent, merciless one with shredded knuckles and rage. _

_She bolted from the lab.  
><em>

_In the silence that followed, Sherlock closed his eyes in sudden, overwhelming remorse, taking a very deep breath and sitting himself down. He clenched his jaw and checked his notes, chastising himself severely for not doing so earlier when he'd read it._

_Not that there was any excuse for what he'd done._

_"Thirty milliliters."_

_Well, he was, occasionally, wrong._

* * *

><p><em>Molly didn't see Sherlock for two days after that incident. She was aware that the case was solved, so she assumed that he must have consumed massive amounts of food and then slept for twelve hours. She was relieved. She didn't want to see him for a very long time.<em>

_It wasn't often she felt that way._

_But really, she thought of him far less these days. Some days she didn't think about him at all and she found the feeling liberating. Her chest didn't ache anymore and her heart didn't speed up at the thought of him, at least not in any romantic sense, because that night she was terrified and her heart had pounded and she wondered if he'd been on drugs again.  
><em>

_There was a bowl of stomach contents in front of her. Gloves were stretched up to her elbows and the safety glasses continued to slide down her nose as she prepared samples of the brownish, undigested mass before her. There were pieces of grass protruding from bits of it._

_When Molly heard the door open she naturally tensed, as it was nine-o-clock at night. It was either another lab tech or, god she hoped she was wrong, it was-_

_"Molly," Sherlock addressed._

_She didn't bother turning around. Too busy. "Are you here for a case?"_

_There was a deep breath. "No."_

_"Then go away."_

_She didn't hear him leave. His behavior had been so erratic that night that Molly found herself feeling uneasy and unprepared, unable to run at a moment's notice. She never thought she would want to run so badly from Sherlock Holmes. Shimmying two feet to the sink, she snapped the gloves off and washed her hands meticulously. She placed her glasses on the counter next to a set of cleaned, fragile 50 milliliter cylinders and turned around._

_Sherlock stood three yards behind her, appearing to wait patiently until she finished. "Why are you still here?" she demanded angrily._

_Surprisingly, he looked chastened. "I believe I owe you an apology."_

_She let him continue with her level stare as reply._

_"You were right. I did say thirty. I'm sorry."_

_It didn't cut it, not this time. It went beyond miscommunications and Molly genuinely wanted him gone from her lab, at least for a few more days or weeks. Maybe months. "I need you to leave," she said, slowly._

_Sherlock was apparently unwilling to do so, obviously ready to say something either in his defense, or something to placate her with, but in that moment, Molly only registered his tall, imposing form stalking towards her in two long strides. It was like being on autopilot, that her body panicked, backed up sharply into the counter behind her and banged her foot into the cabinet below. She reached out jarringly to catch herself and her hand landed hard into the cylinders. One splintered jaggedly beneath her palm._

_Blood rolled down to her elbow as she blinked in surprise.  
><em>

_The next thing she knew, Sherlock had thrown the sink faucet on and held her bleeding hand underneath the soothing rush of water. His body was tense beside her, and his face, when she dared to glance at him, was unreadable. His long fingers ran over the wounds, gently sloughing away the small shards of clinging glass. It should have been touching, but it felt humiliating._

_"I'm a grown woman, Sherlock, I can take care of myself," she snapped, reaching over and shutting off the tap. "Even if I am clumsy. And stupid." Wrenching her hand away, she reached for a clean, sterile towel above the sink and staunched the blood seeping through the cracks again. The cuts stung terribly and she considered that she might need stitches, but she had a feeling that Sherlock would follow her if she ran again like a dog with her tail between her legs. Always running away, always running from her own lab._

_"I'm sorry," he said stiltedly, drying his hands on his coat before bringing them up as though to reach for her again. "It was never my intention to frighten you."_

_Molly, frustrated, walked around him to gracelessly lumber out the first aid kit. Sherlock, for such a usually impatient man, was persistent in his desire to help and pulled it away from her to lay it on the table. By then Molly was too sapped to fight him, or fight her own anger for that matter, and she slumped exhaustively onto a stool that Sherlock had surreptitiously maneuvered beneath her._

_Pulling her hand away from where it was cradled to her chest, letting the towel drop, he began pressing small white cotton squares against her cuts and wrapping them up in long, gauzy strips._

_"I never thought you were stupid," Sherlock told her, voice as gentle and firm as the way he was dressing her wounds. "Not once. I was just... I was frustrated."_

_"Just being you, I suppose," Molly glumly added, flinching at a particular area around her thumb._

_"No," he said sharply, though his tone had no bite. His features and voice softened. "No. That wasn't me, never, not if I keep scaring you. I can't allow that. I told myself that I would be kind to you and I continue to screw it up marvelously."_

_Sherlock snipped off the end of the gauze and secured it carefully with medical tape. Molly examined his work, surprised at how well it was done. "I'm not actually on any dating sites, you know. Told you, I'm done with men."_

_"I know."_

_Molly granted him a tiny smile and stood up, feeling that an enormous weight had been hoisted from her chest, such was the stress of being constantly angry. "I'm still a bit upset with you."  
><em>

_She stretched a little and tried to wiggle her two fingers under the mass of stiff bandages. Sherlock reached up and gently took her hand, stilling her movements. He had that rare, warm glow in his eyes again and he stepped closer, his palm pressing against her jaw, and what was he doing, because Molly had really been trying to avoid these kinds of situations with anyone and Sherlock of all people couldn't just-_

_-he kissed her cheek. It was soft and warm, but he was lingering there too long, too close, cheek brushing against hers, smelling faintly like tea and tobacco._

_She stepped back, attempting a jittery smile as she pushed away, leaving his arms to fall to his sides. He searched her face. There must be something she could say to distract from this atmosphere and she looked around frantically._

_"Pica!" She squeaked._

_Sherlock started, thoroughly confused. "Excuse me?"_

_"It's an eating disorder," she explained quickly, "A body was brought in earlier with it, stomach just filled with dirt and, you know, a couple small rocks and some grass. If you help me clean up this mess, would you like to help me take samples?"_

_He blinked, swallowed, breaching the surface of whatever thoughts he'd been swimming in._

_"Alright."_

_._

* * *

><p>.<p>

AN: Yaaay, cliche 'Molly living with Sherlock' time! You guys disappointed with me, yet? I think the writing isn't very good here. I also found that I like writing from Sherlock's perspective way more than Molly's.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Hi. This is a straight up filler chapter. Sorry.

.

* * *

><p>.<p>

It was still fairly dark at six o' clock in the morning. The sky was less than partially clear, splotches of sparkling navy and the soupy glow of twilight creeping in through the heavy clouds. London, however, continued to sleep for no one, Molly Hooper included.

When she woke and dressed in day-before clothing, she emerged from her temporary room and trudged downstairs, back aching. She entertained the idea of bypassing 221B entirely and making an escape downstairs through the front door, and she made the attempt; however, there was a note taped beside the handle covered in familiar scrawl.

'_Molly,_

_Stay until I return. Help yourself to what's in the fridge. _

_I advise that you keep to the left._

_ -SH'_

It was six in the morning, when the hell did he leave?

Molly stared blurry eyed at the note, ripping it off the door. Ignoring it seemed like a good idea, or she could march back upstairs and get another hour of rest. She rubbed her face with her hands and felt oily and grimy and made the decision that a shower really would be outstanding. The prospect felt a little less uncomfortable with Sherlock out of the flat and sparing her from his brand of scrutiny, and it really wasn't the most important thing to be worrying about in light of the massive Haul-All-or-Nothing burglary of her entire home.

She dragged her feet towards the bathroom when she heard the cooing little meow.

Molly spun on her heels, rushing to the sitting room and searching around frantically, sure that she was going out of her mind until she spied, in Sherlock's chair, Toby licking himself and seeming perfectly at ease.

Molly gave a little cry and scooped him up, pressing her face into his fur and collapsing into the chair. "Oh, Toby! I thought I would never see you again!"

She sat there for nearly ten minutes with the startled cat before composing herself. Then she sat another ten minutes trying to understand how he had gotten there. The only thing she could think of was that Sherlock had found him, sometime, very, _very_, early in the morning.

Just where was he?

Actually searching for the thief, or thieves, on her behalf?

By the time Molly was finished squeezing the life out of her precious cat and trying hard not to think about his lack of a litter box, a shower was had. And there was something to be said about the grimy feeling of dirty clothes after a refreshing shower.

After opening the refrigerator to see what was inside (out of either hunger or morbid curiosity), Molly looked to the right and choked on a bubble of laughter at the jar of carpals, metacarpals, and phalanges as if Sherlock was planning on constructing a hand for the skull on the mantelpiece. There was also a wrapped up white paper bag with writing atop it that said 'LIVER (HUMAN – DO NOT EAT)'.

At seven in the morning, Molly phoned Mike Stamford.

"Already got notice that you'd be out a couple days," Mike had said affably. "No worries, we got someone from Kings to fill in for you. You work on getting yourself sorted."

Molly was getting an idea as to the informant, but she still had doubts. "Who told you?"

"Sherlock."

At eight in the morning, Molly was pacing the flat under the indifferent gaze of her feline when Mrs. Hudson let herself in with a happy knock. In her hands was a tray of tea and biscuits which she placed carefully on an end table. "I normally bring tea up a little earlier in the morning, but Sherlock seemed to think you'd sleep in a bit longer. I hope you'll help yourself."

Genuinely surprised, Molly couldn't help but ask the older woman to stay and join her.

They were soon sitting across one another.

"Such a dreadful thing, what happened to you. But you know our Sherlock, he'll have it sorted in no time, I'm sure. Woke me up bloody early when he left." Mrs. Hudson huffed good-naturedly. "In the meantime, I hope you enjoy it here, but you won't find much peace with the way he can carry on sometimes. Between you and me though, the violin playing is sometimes worth it." Mrs. Hudson nodded once, smile still reaching her eyes.

Molly stirred her tea, sitting quite straight in Sherlock's chair. "Oh, I'm not staying long, I swear. I need to find a place to go at least by tomorrow, actually."

Mrs. Hudson shook her head thoughtfully puzzled. "That's not what Sherlock told me. Said you'd be staying at least a couple months."

Somehow the tea in Molly's mouth didn't quite make its way down her throat, but she did manage to cough it back into her cup. "_Months_?" she hacked.

"Oh," Mrs. Hudson said chagrined, "Maybe he's lonelier than I thought? I shouldn't have said anything."

"No, no, it's fine. I'll talk to him," Molly waved it off only enough to let it linger in the back of her mind.

"He's just been living alone for so long now, ever since he came back," Mrs. Hudson continued, "Sometimes I come up and play a board game with him, but you know how he is, I can't always stay for too long for my mental health. And really, he's usually gone anyway on a case or at the hospital."

"Right."

"And I think I might be convinced that he's not actually gay, but there's no sign of a woman. Not since that awful thing with that young lady. Do you remember the tabloids on _that_?" Mrs. Hudson sipped her tea, scandalous.

A smile struggled its way on Molly's face. Oh yes. She remembered that. She didn't believe a word of it; they were tabloids after all, but she slowly had come to realize that she wouldn't put it past Sherlock to do to Janine what she'd heard had been done. And while John filled her in, it was Sherlock who hadn't wanted to speak a word of it. 'It was for a case,' he had said. Molly still found herself suffocating with empathy. A fake relationship, however brief, was a hurtful betrayal she had experienced before.

She and Tom had broken things off only just before the news reached her, at a time when she'd still been holding a candle for Sherlock Holmes.

And Janine, through no fault of her own, had been the breeze that extinguished it.

Sherlock could do a lot of damage when he wasn't trying; he could accomplish devastation when he was, so it went without saying that if Molly still had it in her to put her heart in his hands, he'd either step on it by accident, which happened plenty of times in the past, or he'd shatter it deliberately like the test tube against the lab's pristine wall. So when she was finally able to pull it back into the safe enclosure of her chest cavity, Molly felt rather secure.

Breathing was easier. Living life was easier.

Or it would be if she hadn't just been severely burgled.

"Molly, dear?" Mrs. Hudson called. "Are you alright? You started drifting off a bit, there."

"Sorry," Molly shook her head of the sudden cobwebs. "I guess I'm distracted. I've got to make phone calls and pick up some clothes that aren't, you know, just these."

Mrs. Hudson just smiled sympathetically at her.

Molly then remembered to say, "I also wanted to thank you for cleaning up John's old room."

The smile wilted into confusion. "I haven't been up there in ages."

Molly stared at her quizzically before shaking it off. She'd think about it later.

After easy conversation, and maybe a little bit of rambling on Mrs. Hudson's part before she departed, Molly set to the task of contacting her insurance. She also left several messages for the property manager of her building, but it seemed he was out for a bit. Not that it was particularly necessary that she do so, as New Scotland Yard had made the attempt the night before.

After nearly an hour of lazing around the flat with no sign of Sherlock, she attempted to call the manager again.

No answer.

She was about to convert cardboard laptop packaging she'd found into a catbox until she remembered there was no litter.

"Oh, sod this," she muttered before grabbing her bag and preparing to leave the flat.

She'd made it to the last step with her coat half-way on when her mobile ringed. She glanced at the screen before answering. "Greg?"

"Molly, get a cab and come down to the station. We've got him," Lestrade said, though he didn't sound too happy. There was a rumbling protest barely made out in the background before he added, "Fine, whatever, _Sherlock_ got him. Will you get here as soon as you can?"

"I-"

"Do you need me to send a car? I can send a car."

"No," Molly squeaked. "I'll catch a cab. I'll be there soon."

The call ended. Molly breathed deeply, thinking, _they got him! They got him! Thank you, Sherlock!_ But somehow it felt too soon to celebrate. Something was still amiss if the tone of Lestrade was anything to go by. Perhaps Sherlock was simply giving him a harder time than usual and was beyond eager for a reprieve. Or not.

No. She could sense the bad news. It was heavy and thick and impending, like a toothache and going to see the dentist. You haven't gotten the diagnosis, but you know it's going to be a cavity.

When Molly arrived at the front desk, it was Sherlock who was waiting for her, tapping away at his mobile beneath the bright fluorescent lighting that bounced off the gray polish of the concrete floors.

"Molly, glad you could make it," he spoke like he was greeting guests for a party, if Sherlock Holmes ever attended parties. Or greeted people at them. He looked up at her, smiled vaingloriously, and pocketed his phone. "Turns out you already know your thief. Well, you've met him, anyway. Signed a contract with him, in fact."

"Who is it?"

"Michael Morris Allsworth. Also known as your property manager."

"Oh, god." Molly covered her face with her hands.

"And manage your property he did."

"Oh, _god_." She sank into the nearest seat against the wall. A passing policeman tossed her a sympathetic look, but whether it was because he was privy to her plight or because she was so fortunate to be conversing with Sherlock Holmes, she didn't know. It might have been her attire, if she stopped to think on it.

"Where's Greg?" She asked wearily.

"Who?"

Molly shut her eyes tight. "I'm really not in the mood right now, Sherlock. Just-"

"-He's getting him to cooperate," he said, finally serious, maybe apologetic. "I did what I could, and once he broke down, Lestrade swooped in to take care of the details. Do you want me to – Would you prefer I take you to see him?"

Molly stared at the shiny floor for a moment before answering. "No. I'll wait till' he's done."

"Right." Sherlock, still standing, placed his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. "Well, it might be a while, seeing as he'll be questioning Allsworth's accomplice again, so..."

"His _accomplice_?"

Sherlock nodded down with a hum of confirmation.

"I'm afraid you may have left that bit out," Molly said.

Taking the prompt, Sherlock explained. "The man cleared out an entire flat, very quickly and quietly, leaving no damage. Like I said last night, it was professional. It was obvious he had an accomplice and even more obvious that said accomplice is his brother, Jack Allsworth, owner and operator of-"

"-A moving service."

"Allsworth Moving Company." Sherlock stared at her and his eyes softened. He dropped into the chair next to her and they listened to the sounds of the police going about their duties.

Molly asked quietly, "So then, where is it all? The things they stole?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He stared at the ground contemplatively before directing his attention back to her and Molly felt her stomach drop yet again at the look in his eyes. She made a mistake in getting her hopes too high. Because now they were going to sink and crash right back to the ground, she knew it.

He opened his mouth to give her the straight, dreadful truth, and was abruptly cut off by a door swinging open and slamming shut and Lestrade striding across the room towards them.

"Well?" Sherlock rose from his seat, as did Molly, who couldn't help but notice Lestrade's prominent frown lines. Poor man looked as though he hadn't had a decent sleep, but he still had the presence of mind to give her a smile, albeit a tired one.

"They've got the same story," Lestrade said. "They parked the truck behind the company building and when they went back to move it this morning, it was empty."

"And the lock? Same story?"

"They found it locked back up the way it was."

"Terribly cooperative criminal idiots, aren't they?" said Sherlock. "Indicates they're scared, so they haven't been up to this scheme for long. Suddenly desperate for money. Still. Best you look into any other recent burglaries of a similar nature, as he had more than one building under his charge."

Molly groaned into her hand. "So let me get this all straight," she said, rubbing fiercely at her eyes and grabbing their attentions. "My property manager and his brother hatched an elaborate plan-"

"Hardly elaborate," Sherlock quipped.

"-a plan to break into my home, take everything down to a stale bag of crisps, leave it all in the back of a car park, and ended up with everything stolen – from thieves – by thieves."

Ah, London.

"Yes," answered Sherlock.

Molly looked at him with a hopelessly hopeful expression. He swallowed.

"I, um, I don't know who. Not yet." A reluctant admission. And if Sherlock had managed to catch the first tier of this ridiculous charade, but not the second, she wasn't sure he would. Whether because he couldn't (highly doubtful), or because the inevitable boredom would creep in, didn't matter. The words _not yet_ echoed dully and disintegrated like a hollow platitude.

The rest of the morning was a slow blur. She was asked to sign documents in order to file charges. She didn't read any of them. She supposed her comprehension would have suffered greatly if she made the attempt in her state, as simply finding the correct signature line seemed a trial, indicated by the way Sherlock would nudge her hand to the correct placement on the page.

"On the bright side you no longer have to worry about your lease," Sherlock said as they left the station, enveloped in the light that struggled through a gray covered sky. Molly scowled.

"How is that the bright side?" she countered, kicking an innocent pebble into the road as they ambled down the street. "I liked my lease. I was only two months into it."

"But you'll not be going back."

Molly sighed. He was right after all. "No. There'll be someone new to manage the place, sure, but I guess I wouldn't be comfortable there anymore. Not when I can still see everything that used to be there when it's not."

Sherlock spoke the words "You can stay at Baker Street" at the same time that Molly said "I'll have to find a new place", which was followed by an incredibly awkward pause where they both looked away, halted on the sidewalk.

"This is ridiculous," Sherlock said. "I keep trying to tell you that there's space available. That you are ...welcome. As long as you like."

"Why are you being nice to me?" Molly asked heavily, a little resigned, a little suspicious, as she resumed her previously steady pace. Sherlock walked beside her, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his coat.

"I've been told that's what friends should do," he said with a measure of uncertainty.

"Really."

"And - yes, really, thank you," he sniffed. "And because I still feel that I ...owe you. I know I do. And I want to – help, that is."

Sherlock certainly seemed the type who didn't like leaving favors unpaid, even if she had told him before that her hand in his death -and the lab work- was free of charge. It didn't come as a surprise. "I'm not _moving in_ with you." Molly said. "It's just temporary. I'll get myself sorted soon enough and you'll have your flat back all to yourself, yeah?"

"Like I said, as long as you like."

Molly hummed, peering at Sherlock from the corner of her eye. There was a moment of uncertainty. She considered backing out, throwing money at a hotel for up to a month until she found a new place to house up in. Then she remembered the general cost of a decent hotel in London and quickly changed her mind.

She remembered the new toothbrush that was now hers, sitting in the bathroom behind the medicine cabinet next to Sherlock's. She didn't necessarily feel a romantic rush of affection at that; more along the lines of grateful companionship. Comfort. Perhaps it was a friendship that went from something abstract and indiscernible, turning a little more clear, a little more defined every day, like the focus over a slide in a microscope.

Had to be that. Otherwise, she'd have to reconsider Sherlock's offer again, backing away and cramming her heart safely back into the cage of her chest from where it fluttered. She would be back to considering the hotel again, or maybe a co-worker's couch or something equally indifferent.

Lord knows her family, such as they are, would never be an option. Molly hadn't heard a word from her mother in ten years since her dad died and it would be ten years too soon if she did now.

"Well," Molly slapped her hands together. "If you're going to be boarding Toby and me for a bit, I should pick up some kitty litter, don't you think? Unless you've got it in for a potted plant."

By the look on Sherlock's face, it was obvious the thought had slipped his racing fast mind. "Ah."

"Mrs. Hudson didn't seem to mind the cat. She came in with tea this morning."

"Mrs. Hudson rents _me_ a flat. I shouldn't think a cat would be much more destructive than myself. Though I did promise not to shoot the walls again."

"You shoot the walls?"

"I just said, not anymore."

"Huh." Molly thought on that for a moment. Sherlock Holmes making concessions? Perhaps she was more surprised than she should be, given his revised behavior of late. Sherlock peered at her for a moment as they walked.

"Chips first?" he asked.

_No engagement to excuse myself this time, _Molly thought. "Sure," she said. "You're buying."

Sherlock made a low sound of acknowledgment as they made their way to the shops.

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AN: I promise, things will happen soon.


	3. Chapter 3

AN: Thanks for the follows, reviews, and favorites, guys. They make me super happy.

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The following day was the day Molly decided to buy some clothes.

The previous day had been reserved for moping before gaining the ability to remove herself from the flat again. In an effort to observe the brighter side of things, she thanked whatever higher power there might be that at least she still had her purse. And therefore her wallet.

It was early in the morning, around the time most shops were just opening their doors, and also a weekday, which meant most people were working. This suited Molly (who was not the biggest fan of shopping or crowds) just fine. Because Molly Hooper didn't shop. It wasn't the womanly sort of thing she was ever blessed with being good at. Cheerful colors were always preferred. Threadbare jumper? Better go replace it, never mined the fact that it doesn't exactly match an outfit. Trousers a bit baggy? Well, it was a _sale_, who can pass up frugality for the sake of fashion?

Molly had expressed her distaste for general clothes shopping over breakfast with Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock, finished with pretending not to overhear, had rolled his eyes and folded his newspaper. "For god's sake, Molly, you make a decent salary, just get what you_ want._ If that's bright colors and fruit prints and kittens, then sod what anyone else thinks," he'd said while Mrs. Hudson buttered muffins on the table. "No matter how much more fashionably instinctual they are."

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson chided. Then to Molly, "Dear, there's nothing wrong with shelling out a little more money for things that _fit_, but I think you should keep your, ah, style. It brightens my day when I see you."

Molly had taken the advice to heart. She bought adorable jumpers and trousers and a pair of jeans. She bought comfortable shoes, blouses, plenty of unmentionables and all the regular attire a woman would need for her person. And a new coat, because why not? The coat was now her favorite, too, with pink, green, and purple stripes and fluffy padding and Sherlock would most likely grimace every time he set eyes on it.

She made her way down the London streets, arms laden with bags and feeling as if she knew what she was doing and actually enjoying it, forgetting for a moment the reason why she was picking up a new scarf. It struck her a little odd; the only thing she enjoyed shopping for was the Special Occasion Dress for the once in a while party or wedding. A certain yellow number with a giant bow did not go unmissed.

She let herself in to Baker Street and deposited the shopping in John's old room. Upon descending back down the stairs she caught the sound of voices, Sherlock and a guest, muffled through the walls. They were quiet and amiably spoken and it didn't take long to recognize that it was John Watson.

Only John wasn't really a guest, was he? In a way, he still lived at 221B and he always would. Always unconditionally welcome, always a place to belong.

For some reason, the happiness was sucked out of her, the feeling of being an intruder taking its place.

Should she enter through the kitchen door or the living room? Which one would be less intrusive? Should she go back out and grab lunch instead? Should she just-

-The door nearest to her, the one leading to the kitchen, flew abruptly open and she jumped, hands still wrung together as Sherlock stared at her expectantly.

His head tilted up. "You do realize you may come and go as you please?"

"Well, I-" she started and trailed off. "...Right. Sorry."

"Don't apologize."

"Sorry."

Sherlock offered a withering look as she crossed the threshold.

John stood up from his seat at the counter to greet her, but his face was a mixture of confusion as he glanced back and forth between the pathologist and the detective. "Hey, Molly. What brings you here?"

The question threw her off. Obviously Sherlock hadn't felt the need to mention her temporary residence. Funny, considering he usually talked about anything under the sun, a person's private matters be damned unless it was his own. "Ah, well, sort of a long story there, actually," she replied.

"Not really," Sherlock said, reaching under the kitchen sink. He placed a lab torch on the counter and began a search around the kitchen, opening and closing cupboards as he went. "Molly's flat was burgled quite thoroughly by her property manager. As she has no earthly possessions at the moment and she seems rather a magnet for London's more devious population, I thought it best that she stay here."

"She's living here?" John's eyebrows shot up.

"See?" Sherlock said, "Not a long story at all. Ah, here it is!" he grabbed a small gas canister disguised amongst the spice rack.

John looked at Molly. She shrugged, saying, "It's only temporary. I'll find a place soon. Unless finding a unit in London is as difficult to get as it is trying to get a call back from my insurance. I don't know what's going on there."

Sherlock focused on the blowtorch.

"Jesus, Molly," John said. "I'm sorry to hear about that. So you're staying upstairs, then?"

"Yeah, your old room."

John winced. "Sorry about that, too. That bed became the worst thing I'd ever slept on before I moved out, and I'd spent years sleeping on shite cots."

She believed him. Her back was still aching to bits and the springs may as well have been lodged in her spine. Perhaps the mattress was made in the seventies. Nevertheless, it was serving its new purpose as one more motive to get her own place as soon as possible.

With a sigh, Molly pulled herself onto the stool across from where Sherlock tested the torch, canister secured. In the brief moment of silence, she noticed a sweet smell in the kitchen and drops of white sprinkling the counter top, probably cream, and a forgotten eggshell by the foot of her stool. An open bag of sugar rested heavily in front of her. "What are you two up to, anyway?" she asked.

John rubbed the back of his neck. "Me and Mary have been so busy-"

"Mary and I," Sherlock corrected faintly.

John ignored him. "We've been so busy with the baby that we've sort of been living on take-out. We've finally got back into the habit of cooking again, but then Mary goes and gets some bizarre craving for crème brulee."

"John botched it."

"Thank you, Sherlock," said John. "But, yeah, I tried making it and I really did botch it."

Molly nodded along. "So you're practicing here? Like a surprise? That's romantic of you."

John's face tightened. "Actually-"

"-I'm teaching him," Sherlock said proudly. "I also taught him how to dance for his wedding. Funny that he's the romantic one."

Molly made a great attempt not to smile too wide for fear that it would be misconstrued as mockery. "Sherlock, you can cook?"

"Of course I can cook. Just because I don't do it often-"

John coughed, "never".

"-Doesn't mean I don't know _how_." Sherlock went to the refrigerator and pulled out a tray of four custard filled ramekins. He set them gently on the counter and peeled back a layer of cling film, using a measuring spoon to sprinkle a layer of sugar on each as Molly and John leaned over to observe. The custard was an even color of yellow amber, and even cold it smelled delicious. They inhaled the scent.

"Alright, back away," Sherlock said, picking up the lab torch, which really, would be overkill if he weren't careful. "Unless you no longer wish to keep your eyebrows." He fired it up, adjusting the flame as Molly and John tilted warily back. "Now, sugar burns at one hundred sixty degrees Celsius, but don't bother checking the temperature. Just use the torch, burn the sugar on the top, and do it quickly. You don't want the proteins in the dish itself to coagulate anymore than it already has."

Sherlock demonstrated, torching the top of one of the custards until it bubbled and hardened evenly to a deep caramel brown. He handed the flame to John, who smiled at his success when he was done, passing the flame to Molly. She hadn't been expecting it, but she had a go, if not just for the excuse to use new lab equipment. John finished off the last one and Sherlock picked up the tray to let it sit in the refrigerator. After a few minutes, he pulled it back out, setting a spoon and a custard in front of each of them.

Molly broke through the crispy layer and spooned a helping into her mouth. It was silky and sweet, slightly bitter from the caramel, and absolutely perfect. There was the distinct, underwhelming taste of a burned off liquor as well.

"Is there brandy in this?" Molly asked around the flatware in her mouth.

Sherlock hummed. "Couldn't help myself."

"Amazing," John marveled, shaking his head. "I lived with you for _years_, you cock, and you never made anything like this."

"Wasn't exactly trying to sweep you off your feet."

John rolled his eyes, pushing his chair back. "Well, anyway, I appreciate you showing me how to make this, Sherlock. Not sure I can do this exactly," he gestured to his serving, "But at least it will be edible."

"Tell Mary I said 'you're welcome'."

"I won't, but thanks."

"You're welcome."

When they were finished eating and the dishes cleaned, John grabbed the last one to take to Mrs. Hudson on his way out. He pulled Molly aside in the sitting room while Sherlock banged about in the kitchen, insistent that certain things should be in certain places. Gas canisters back in the spice rack, apparently.

"So, why here, Molly? With Sherlock?" John asked her with genuine curiosity.

Molly lifted her shoulders and then let them sag. She'd been wondering the same thing. "I don't know," she sighed. "To be honest, I didn't really want to, but he was insistent."

"Did he bully you into this?"

"No!" she exclaimed. She lowered her voice back down. "No, not at all. He was... kind. It was weird. Still is."

"And," John looked a little uncomfortable asking this, "Your family, what about them? Wouldn't they be the first to help you out? Give you a place to crash?"

_They'd be the last._ Molly began to feel uncomfortable. "Do you – Do you not want me staying here?"

"No, nothing like that, no," he tried to assure. "It's just, I know how Sherlock can be. To live with, I mean, and I just want to make sure you're okay with that. He does tend to overstep his bounds a bit – a lot."

"John, I'm not _living_ here. This is not a _living arrangement._ It's just a step up from a hotel. And besides, he's been really quite alright so far. You don't need to worry."

John looked at her pensively. He glanced in the direction of the kitchen before saying, "Will you be alright?"

It wasn't a superficial question by any means. Molly could read the subtext, the way he looked at her, and she knew what he was asking. _You know who he is. Will your heart be okay?_ And Molly reminded herself that she was fine. That she had been exposed to Sherlock enough to build an immunity and see him without the heart flipping emotional reaction. She could see him without seeing herself in the picture.

Her only fear was that his supposed regard for her might change that. That she might mistake it for something else, something cruel and experimental; that he would only play a game with her. That she was being studied. Because the only thing worse than being ignored or insulted by Sherlock Holmes was to be placed beneath his microscope.

"I'll be fine," she said decisively. "It might be a bit hard to believe, but I'm very much over him. One long crush was quite enough for me. Besides, I'm done with men for a while."

"Right," John smiled, or tried to. There was an element of disbelief there that Molly didn't want to dwell or remark on. "Well, if you need anything, you've got my number, yeah?"

She nodded. They said goodbye and John shouted his farewell to Sherlock, who had disappeared into the hall once or twice. Either he hadn't heard him or he failed to acknowledge him, but John wasn't bothered, and he took his leave.

The rest of the day passed in surprising peace. Molly spent time on Sherlock's laptop and bookmarked things that had been in her possession. When that became a bit much and the urge to cry again came upon her, she settled onto the sofa and read a book. Sherlock had a surprising amount of fiction.

She must have dozed off at some point because she woke to the sound of a softly played violin. Sherlock's back was to her, housecoat swaying gently against him as he played something quiet and serene, the notes shrouded in the whorls of dust and sunbeams that eased their way through the windows. The sky had cleared for the early evening, but it wouldn't be for long, as if the clouds would advance were Sherlock to ever dare stop playing.

Molly sat up groggily, a throw blanket she hadn't remembered grabbing falling down her shoulders. She attempted, and failed, to stifle a yawn.

The music died gently away.

"Apologies," said Sherlock. "Didn't intend to wake you."

"S'your flat," Molly replied. "Shouldn't be sleeping on the couch anyway. I should-"

"-Stay."

"What?" She sat a little straighter, bemused.

"No need to rush to your room while it's still early."

"John's old room."

He gave a short, tight smile at her correction, and awkwardly scanned the room. "Feel free to do what you would normally do in the evenings. I'm sure everything on television is adequately horrid."

Molly huffed. "I don't just watch crap telly every night."

"No, of course not. You read quite a bit, don't you? What else?"

His full attention was on her. Molly found it unnerving. "Um, well, I like cooking..."

"As do I," Sherlock said with a proud smile. Molly could only feel her face contort into something disbelievingly questioning, so he continued by saying, "Well, when the mood strikes, I suppose. And when I'm not on a case. And when Mrs. Hudson cleans the kitchen. Or when takeout isn't feasible."

He sort of trailed off while Molly sat wringing her hands and wondering why Sherlock was going through the effort providing attention and company.

"I, erm..." He looked down at the floor for a moment. "About your family-"

Molly groaned and stood up from her place on the couch, hand rubbing at her forehead. Sherlock had the grace to look surprised.

She had to be careful about what she said in the future, no matter where Sherlock was and whether or not he was paying attention, as the man could probably eavesdrop from across London. She thought frantically back to what she had said. _She was over him. She didn't want to be there._ Well, neither one of those were bound to be important, or new information. She couldn't remember what else she may have said.

But he was asking now about her family, and it was no one's business.

Taking a huge gulp of air she said, "I don't want to talk about them."

"Understandable. You've been estranged since your father's death and as a result they bring memories you'd rather forget; however-"

"No howevers, Sherlock," Molly said tightly. "I don't need your deductions about it."

"I just thought I should tell you-"

"-No."

Sherlock went quiet, and then said "Tea?" while he made for the kitchen, clearly not interested in whether or not Molly would say yes.

She watched him in bewilderment as he set the kettle to boil. Rather than follow after him, she chose to lean back against the couch cushions and take up the book she had been reading. She'd just found where she'd left off and managed two pages before Sherlock approached her, cup in hand, extended to her. She took it slowly with a dubious eyeballing.

Rapidly, Sherlock told her, "I saw your mother going into the bookshop two streets from Barts. The one you frequent."

"Oh for god's sake-" Molly slammed her mug into the coffee table with the force she used to swing herself up. It sloshed over onto her hand, burning hot as if attempting to distract her. "Sherlock!"

"I wasn't certain at first, but I'd seen photographs. You have her nose."

With a heavy sigh in an attempt to regain calm, Molly clinched her eyes shut, saying, "You know what? I don't care. I don't care that she's in London."

Sherlock silently handed her a flannel for the mess of tea.

"I haven't heard from her in-"

"-Ten years."

"-A bloody decade! So I'm pretty well sure she's not 'round to see _me._" Molly balled up the now tea soaked flannel. "London is a big place. I'll not likely run into her anyway."

"No," Sherlock agreed. "Not likely at all, so long as you stay away from that particular establishment. She's gone in twice."

Molly hadn't asked him how he'd known. "...Thanks, then. For warning me."

The remaining evening passed quietly with the discussion considered dropped.

* * *

><p>In the morning, showered and dressed and ready to begin work again, Molly found Sherlock in the kitchen, squatting on the floor in his pajamas and staring into the window of the oven.<p>

"What are you doing?" she asked, moving to the floor and kneeling next to him.

"Keeping watch," he said. "I don't want anything splintering."

Molly peered into the oven to see the collection of hand bones, once in the fridge, splayed out on a cookie sheet to dry like some sort of macabre Halloween culinary display. Not thinking too much of it, she told him to lower the heat a little more to prevent any browning before taking a cab to Barts, and for god's sake, _wash the cookie sheet when you're done._

That same day when a medically donated body had finally outlived (haha) its usefulness, there wasn't much second thought when Molly removed a few floating ribs from the well-dissected corpse. She later scrubbed them clean and sterilized them in the lab before wrapping them up in plastic and white parchment as though she'd made a trip to the butcher's shop.

She had the ribs with her when she stopped to pick up groceries, so by the time she made it back to 221B her hands had been full and there was no other place but the grocery bag to place them.

Sherlock was clean and dressed when she made it back upstairs, sans suit jacket and donning a housecoat instead as he sat at the kitchen table with his dried hand bones and a tube of clear superglue. Molly glanced over his shoulder.

"Almost done," he said. "Just finishing attaching his thumb."

"Looks like the surgery is going rather successfully." Molly fished out the ribs and set them beside Sherlock's elbow. "For your apparent collection. Not that I know what you're doing, really."

Sherlock paused long enough to open the gruesome parcel. When the bones fell into his hands, he smiled, genuinely and to himself, as if showing her how happy they made him was conceding too much outward emotion.

Later, Molly would find a marinating bin conveniently re-purposed to store a set of ribs. Certainly not the kind for dinner.

Sherlock hadn't had a case that day and Molly knew that it didn't take him the length of her entire shift to glue hand bones together. She didn't ask him what else he'd done that day, not wanting to exude an aura of domesticity or seem at all passive aggressive about her stolen flat. She didn't want to push him to help her. Molly wasn't under the impression that he would try to find anything anyway, and she was hurt by that, despite knowing him. She brushed the feeling away; it was easier to do now.

So it was very strange when she went to bed that night and noticed fresh sheets. Even stranger was the bed itself, a new mattress that felt surprisingly similar to her own. She missed it; it had been nearly brand new and she hoped that if someone were trying to sell it for a good chunk of money, that person would fail horribly. She'd spilled a good amount of red wine on it once and her room had smelled like a fermentation vat for a full day before being scrubbed with industrial cleaners.

But, it was okay right now, because what mattered was the way she didn't ache in the morning.

.

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><p>AN: Thanks for reading!<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

"My Roger, he was at the veterinarian's. He had a broken foot, which was strange enough as I'd been at work and he was in the flat. Couldn't get out, see, but the door was unlocked and I know absolutely, one hundred percent that I'd locked that door. Little paranoid, though, me, so I changed the locks, all four of them. Took him to the vet, was going to get his teeth cleaned, too, seeing as I was leavin' him there, and the next day he was gone. Nobody there has a clue how he got out or where he could have gone. How far could a limping dog go, anyway?"

Sherlock drummed his fingers against the armrest.

The young woman in his flat, mid twenties, was Alice Henrick, sitting distressed and frowning. "Will you help me, Mr. Holmes?"

He brought his hands up beneath his chin and peered at her through the calculating slits of his eyes. "You said you were recently divorced. A very brief marriage, no children, and the dog belonged to you both."

"He was mine, Mr. Holmes. Jerry abused the hell out of him when he could." She fidgeted in her seat, noticing the direction Sherlock was obviously leading to and relenting. "Alright. I do think he stole him from me. I'm sure of it. But I tried going to the police and do you know what they said? Said they had bigger problems to deal with than a bloody dog."

Names and faces of the New Scotland Yard police force rotated in Sherlock's head. His next question was hardly relevant, but he was curious. "Who did you speak to?"

"Said his name was Dimmock."

"Dimmock," he scoffed. "Dimmock is in homicide, he should have directed you to the appropriate department. He's also is a cad who can't see evidence if it's tied to his face."

The woman looked meekly down at her feet, one side of her mouth curling up just the slightest. "I can't... I can't go there. I can't go back there. I can't. I want to for my Roger, so much, and if it's my last resort, I will, but..." she trailed off in a whimper, viciously rubbing her hands together.

Sherlock found himself wishing that Molly were here. She was compassionate, able to deal and comfort. Years ago he wouldn't have cared quite so much about what he did or said, but now, with this woman verging on a breakdown before him, a terrible bruise barely visible and fading just by her knee, he found himself attempting to be mindful.

Besides, anyone with a brain who spoke with Dimmock would want to beat their heads into a desk for all the good it did them. Sherlock actually found himself sympathizing.

"This might sound ridiculous to you, Mr. Holmes, but he's my best friend. My only friend."

Sherlock stood, adjusted his jacket. "Rest assured, Ms. Henrick. I'll take your case."

* * *

><p>He waited until nightfall.<p>

That's not to say that Sherlock neglected to do his research during daylight on Jerry Henrick before he planned on breaking and entering. Searching the usual social media profiles is always the first and most logical step; it also gave him an idea of the man's rather high level of stupid. Zero privacy settings and a grand announcement of where he'd be that night (bar hopping, supposedly "celebrating" his divorce for the upteenth time), was a remarkable display of failed intellect. Ms. Henrick was kind enough to provide him with the address.

He stopped only to grab John on the way. Also, the John's car.

"It's rather convenient for you to have one of these," Sherlock said while he drove. He'd commandeered the vehicle while John pretended to navigate as if Sherlock didn't know the streets of London like he knew tobacco ash.

"We didn't get it for cases, so you better not make this a habit," John warned. He was dead serious. If, in the rare instances that he were to leave Mary and the baby, the car stayed with Mary. There was no emergency that wasn't planned for in the Watsons' household. Luckily, Mary had company that night. "And where the hell are we going? This place is on the edge of those old abandoned warehouses. It's a real shit part of town."

Sherlock's mouth quirked up.

John sniffed. "Why am I smelling meat and dog biscuits?"

"Why indeed, John. We're breaking and entering tonight. A man stole his wife's dog and we're going to get him back, so I thought, best be prepared, way to a dog's heart is through his stomach and I'm not keen on unfriendly canines."

They drove through the area, all dark grays and black. The streets were littered and dirty and wet, neglected by a populace that long ago ceased to care, or were simply too poor to leave, falling in favor of crime and drugs. A street light flickered, its orange reflection against a flooded drain site helping to briefly light the way.

Sherlock came to a stop, a good distance from a dingy building of cheap flats. He shut off the ignition and John put away his phone after silencing it, watching impassively as a plastic bag that used to be white floated across the windshield.

The quiet passed for only a minute before John said, "So this wasn't much of a case for you, then."

Sherlock glanced at him.

"This is a retrieval mission, not a puzzle. What made you take it?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I was bored."

"No you weren't. You don't do retrieval missions even if you've been shooting the wall or smoking or cutting up some dead bloke's feet. Or bothering poor Molly."

"I don't bother Molly," Sherlock said quickly. John's eyebrows rose to his hairline. The detective plastered a fake-as-hell smile on his face. "How did Mary enjoy the dessert?"

John was still looking at him funny. "I can observe a subject change, you know."

The fake smile vanished. "Oh, well, you can observe little else."

"Sherlock."

Luckily, Sherlock was spared a potentially uncomfortable conversation when a man stumbled out of the front door, maneuvering a bicycle in his hands. He slammed it onto the ground and attempted to ride, but his foot slipped off the pedal on his first try and he stumbled about.

"That's our Mr. Jerry Henrick, I presume," Sherlock said with no small amount of disdain.

"He's pissed," John said.

"He'll come back even worse, I'm sure. Interesting that some drunkards seem to have a liver made of sterner stuff than your average human."

"Yeah, just ask Harry."

They watched the man launch again with wobbly success. He disappeared in the dark glow of night, bike creaking at a steady pace. Sherlock opened his door. "Shall we?"

No one had to be buzzed in to get inside, such was the state of disrepair and poor maintenance and, by extension, the neighborhood. The front of the building smelled like trash and piss and Sherlock was never more grateful for his gloves in such unhygienic circumstances. No wonder Alice Henrick hadn't wanted to come here.

He led the way to the second floor, flat 10b, where he crouched in front of the door to observe the lock. He'd glanced at the fake surveillance cameras set in the corners of the hallways and wondered if the building's owners were fooling anyone.

"Guess there's no key, is there," John mused as he checked under the part of the doormat not weighed down by Sherlock's feet.

"There is," Sherlock told him. "His wife gave me the key. Can't use it for the risk of incriminating her."

"Right," John nodded. "That's ...thoughtful."

Sherlock ignored his tone.

"Can I try something?" And then John reached over before Sherlock could fish inside his coat for lock picks, turned the handle, and pushed the door open. The doctor stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Pissed. They forget to lock their doors."

Sherlock stood back up to his full height, determined to forget John's little one-up on him. They exchanged a glance before cautiously creeping into the flat.

It was quiet. Sherlock expected to at least hear barking or a whine. The flat itself was so terribly dirty that a dog in residence could easily be overlooked. Cheap bottles of all sorts were clumped in every corner, the sofa torn to shreds. Newspaper and various debris littered every surface of the cramped hovel and John could be seen covering his nose at the ripeness of the place.

There was a whimper coming from a closed door accompanied by frenzied scratching. Sherlock reached for the baggie in his pocket, stepped over a half eaten plate of old pasta, and opened the door.

He hadn't asked what kind of dog the woman had, nor had he cared to, but he hadn't expected one that was still nearly a puppy, an obvious Setter mix. Setter and Golden Retriever. There must have been something else there, but he couldn't name it. It was an otherwise unremarkable dog with no striking features beyond very kind, trusting eyes that begged for compassion and refuge from the unwashed bathroom he'd been locked up in. A white cast was secured around his hind leg.

Sherlock liked him immediately. He held out a chunk of meat for him, which was taken ravenously. Perhaps food had not been a privilege bestowed, or it was simply the voraciously hungry nature of canines.

"Roger," Sherlock said. "That's his name. Come here, Roger." Obediently, Roger sidled up next to the detective who scooped him up carefully.

They were ready to leave when something caught Sherlock's eye. He called for John to wait and took the opportunity to go and foist Roger into his arms. The puppy didn't mind one bit as he tucked his head beneath John's chin as Sherlock made his way to the center of the flat, scanning.

"Sherlock," John whispered loudly, "We got the dog, let's just go."

He wasn't listening. Amongst the detritus on the coffee table were keys. Lots of keys, all different kinds for all different locks. Lock picking equipment and sticks and needles. All brand new, never used. Next to it all was a cell phone.

Jerry Henrick forgot his cell phone.

The meaning of this rattled through Sherlock when he heard the slam of the stairwell door, far down the hall. If he understood the concept of unfortunate divine intelligence, then he knew the person stumbling down the corridor (based on the sound of his tilted gait and clumsy shuffles), was Jerry Henrick himself. Of course it didn't take the man long to remember that he'd forgotten his cell phone. Probably peddled his arse frantically back when he'd realized it was left behind.

John, who'd been half out the door, whipped himself right back inside. "Sherlock, he's-"

"Yes, yes, I know." Where could they escape? "The window!"

"Second floor, injured dog?" John hissed at him. "Maybe if we hide in the bedroom until -"

The door swung open the rest of the way and Henrick stood there, entirely confused. He worked his jaw as though it'd been long out of use before slurring out a predictable, "Who the hell are you?"

Sherlock didn't know what came over him in that moment. Perhaps it was the fact that Henrick was symbolizing the epitome of human dysfunction. The fact that Alice Henrick was forced to seek Sherlock out, despite having obviously suffered domestic abuses at the hands of this pathetic waste of resources. The evidence had all been there; fading bruises, anxieties, fidgeting, fear. The four locks on her door. She had conquered her fear not for the sake of herself, but for her only friend.

It was the fact that she had gone to Dimmock, who had not only refused to help her, but had also failed to observe every sign of her obvious plight.

It was the collection of keys and picks, intended for the purpose of breaking right back in to Ms. Henrick's newly acquired flat in order to '_get back_' at her.

It was that the man injured and mistreated a dog, because in Sherlock's opinion, canines were far more admirable than most humans.

It was that the divorce had never taken place because he had so obviously refused to sign the necessary documents. Alice Henrick, as a result, was too afraid to demand a Court Order to force one, too afraid to go to the police about her own situation. And it wasn't her fault.

It was that the entire situation _bothered him in the first place._

So as soon as Sherlock Holmes's fist shot out like the hammer of a pistol and rammed itself into Jerry Henrick's face, the reasons for what came over him were astoundingly clear. Justified. Even more satisfying was the man going down like a rancid sack of potatoes.

John came and stood over the unconscious body, Roger enthusiastically licking his ear. Sherlock took a deep breath, adjusted his right glove, and stood tall. "John," he bid to follow, and calmly walked out the front door.

* * *

><p>The ride to NSY was silent beyond Sherlock calling (not texting!) his client. Roger sat in the back, head resting on the center console where he could properly divide his loyal puppy attention between detective and blogger, though Sherlock may have been favored as he continued to slip him treats from his coat pocket. Later, John would lament the difficulty of removing pet hair from fabric seats. He'd also find a button chewed off the end of the cuff of Sherlock's coat.<p>

Ms. Henrick, who was actually Mrs. Henrick, agreed to meet at the station where Lestrade led everyone into a room. He was reluctant to let Roger in the station, but Sherlock threatened to walk out if the invitation wasn't extended to the four-legged. After that, he promptly told everyone to leave the room and he had a private, uncharacteristically in depth conversation with his client who'd broken down in tears, the puppy whining at her feet. John saw it through a small gap where the blinds were tangled and he nearly burst through the door to remove his friend for being a jackass.

Instead he watched, slack-jawed, as Sherlock touched her shoulder and she put her arms around his middle and cried into the lapels of a Belstaff and a deep blue scarf. He let her. He looked terribly awkward, but he let her.

Eventually, everyone was allowed back in. Alice told Lestrade everything about her unfortunate relationship. Sherlock told him about Dimmock's dismissive attitude, but that was more out of spite than to be helpful. Alice confessed wanting to press charges, but only if Sherlock agreed to give a statement, which he did of course, upon the promise that Alice would be given police protection until Jerry Henrick was in custody.

Sherlock happily took for granted the fact that Lestrade turned the other way when he learned of the crime fighting duo's breaking and entering, theft of property (Sherlock hardly called it theft), and battery. _The man was drunk, he took a tumble off his bike. Obviously._

The entire ordeal left him feeling exhausted.

It was late when John dropped him off at Baker Street. Sherlock didn't speak during the drive, nor did he speak when he mechanically exited, made his way up the steps, and let himself in. He didn't register the sound of John's "_goodbye to you too, of course I'll give Mary and Alex your love, etcetera, etcetera..._" and the sound of the engine fading away was a habitualized noise like a breeze across the ears.

He didn't even remember climbing the stairs. Time skipped and he was on the landing.

What is the purpose, he thought, of involving yourself in a relationship if you didn't intend to care for the one you're with? How easy would it be to fall into a toxic relationship where you are hurt and mistreated and made to feel so much less than the cherished you should be? Isn't that supposed to be the benefit of the chemical reaction called love?

How easy would it be for Molly to fall for someone who would only use-

He stared hard at the door. Use her. _He_ had used her. She had loved him once, he was sure, and he had been cruel and mean and manipulative and he never regretted the person he was more than he did at that moment. Is. The person he_ is_ because he was still being horrible. He was still keeping a secret that was spiraling out of his control, but he couldn't fess up, couldn't bear to see her finally hate him forever.

Could she love him again? Eventually? If whatever flame she'd once held for him could be rekindled, could she love him enough to forgive his trespasses?

Even more frightening, could she be at risk of falling for a man far worse than himself?

He opened the door, stepped through the threshold to see the television on a muted black and white show he'd never recognize, Molly asleep on the sofa. He turned it off and wheeled it back to the shadows in the corner. Coat and scarf were tossed over his chair. He paced, not understanding the way that while she was peacefully resting on one side of the room, he continued to gravitate toward her, rotating around her and keeping her just there, in his line of sight, as if she might disappear or _know about what he's done to keep her with him._

Before Sherlock could stop, he perched himself beside the length of Molly's body on the couch, leaning over her, hands pressing into the cushions in an intimate enclosure. "Molly," he called, voice sounding so quiet and so loud in the stillness of the flat. She didn't stir, so he moved one hand to cradle her cheek, brushing the hair from her face and calling her name again.

Eyes fluttering, Molly stirred with a mumbled "Sherlock?" as she was slowly waking and taking stock of this strange position he held them in. "What...?"

He didn't want to think right now, he'd done that so often, he had to simply act. He hovered above her face so closely he could smell her shampoo. "Molly," he whispered, "Like this, you can't step away. You can't avoid me. Not this time."

Before she could make a sound, he'd brought his mouth to hers and kissed her. She gasped, so he kissed her again, then again, and again, until they blended together, until he was holding her face with both hands and trying to show her something he'd been long unable to say. She was rigid but he kept going, kept pushing until he clung to her. It wasn't until he stroked her bottom lip with his tongue and she remained unresponsive and tense beneath his hands that he let up, pulled back, and felt the pressure of her palms as she weakly pushed against him.

No, not weakly. He was using strength and failed to notice that she didn't...

He felt sick.

A wetness coated the pad of his thumb against her face and he realized a tear had trailed down the corner of her eye.

Sherlock swallowed, washed with cold. "You don't want this," his voice cracked.

She shook her head no, trying to look anywhere but at him, silently screaming for him to _let her up._ Horrified, he scrambled to the other side of the sofa, unable to look away from her as she covered her mouth, stunned. She swept her legs to the floor, clearly with the intent to flee and Sherlock, unfamiliar shame lodged in his chest, had to stop her, had to explain.

Molly was up and half way to the door before he caught her arm. "I'm sorry," he poured out. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to – Molly, wait, please, just-"

He needed to get hold of himself. She was shaking. "What do you want from me?" she wheezed.

"Nothing."

"Why did you do that?"

"Because I..." _Care. __Want you. Need you.__ Need you to want me again._

"Drugs?" Molly said, eyes closed and pained.

"No, no." Sherlock shook his head vehemently. Eyes blinking open, Molly stared at him, apprehension rolling off her in waves. Sherlock gripped his hair in frustration. "I don't want to be toxic," he groaned.

"What?" And now Molly was frustrated and nothing was going the way it should. "I'm not doing this, Sherlock. I can't do this. I'm-I'm going to bed. I'm going to bed and I'll wake up and we can forget this, yeah? We'll forget this."

"Molly-"

"-We'll forget this." It came out a whisper and with a meekness unparalleled, she staggered from the flat, footsteps vanishing up the stairs to her room. _John's old room_, is how he would have been reminded.

Heavy hearted must have been the apt description for his feelings as he let her go.


	5. Chapter 5

AN: We've got a sulky-ish Sherlock here. I apologize for the shorter length of chapter. I also need to update less; I've been posting faster than I could write these chapters! Or maybe I could write faster if I spent less time playing Destiny...

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

Sherlock was up atrociously early the following morning, partly out of fear that Molly would retreat as soon as possible, mostly because he hadn't actually slept in the first place.

He made coffee, subconsciously under the impression that doing so would stall a certain someone's attempt at escape by drawing them in with the scent. Doing anything in the kitchen was distracting, however, as three more ribs had been added to the marinating bin and the biscuit tin had two articulating vertebrae in it. Molly had been adding to the collection for him. She even dried them out while he was away.

He set the tin aside, wishing he were pleased with its new use, the feeling negated by unease at the very real possibility that without the help of Molly Hooper the collection would extend no further. A shame that the real reason for his unsettled state wasn't the prospect of hoarding bones; it could have been so much easier to deal with if it were.

After all, he'd practically assaulted her in his own living room.

He went and pulled the kitchen door open and stood by the counter in order to keep and eye on it, certain that Molly would try to bypass a potential encounter. He'd already showered and dressed, wanting as clear a head as possible.

Two cups were poured and readied, a packet of biscuits torn open, and since pacing failed to help one iota, there was toast made. With butter. And jam.

Footsteps followed in the wake of a door clicking gently shut. Molly tried to tiptoe past the open door, peering in cautiously and dropping the sneaky attempt with a sigh when Sherlock stared back. He felt himself grow tense with nervous energy, the words he'd been going over in his head suddenly draining away and he could do little else but gesture for her to sit, there was coffee and toast, stay, eat.

"I was on my way out to work, actually," she said, reluctantly taking a seat at the island counter.

"You don't have to be at work for another three hours."

Molly grimaced as she wrapped her hands around the proffered mug, muttering a begrudging thank you before taking a sip.

Could this be any more awkward?

Apparently yes, because Sherlock decided to open his mouth. "About last night, my behavior - it wasn't...good. I -" He had to find his bearings and tried again. "Don't feel that you should leave," he said. Good enough.

"We don't need to discuss this, Sherlock," she responded uncomfortably into her cup. "We were going to forget it ever happened, weren't we?"

"Except I never agreed to that."

Molly hung her head, exasperated. Sherlock had not realized that a heart could sink any more than it already had until Molly frowned, slumped, and said dolefully, "Then you'll have to just tell me what you want."

Very unsure that it was a good idea, but not very expansive (in this respect) in ideas that were, Sherlock stepped as near as he dared for fear that she would run. "Wasn't-" he swallowed. "Wasn't it obvious?"

"No," Molly wrinkled her eyebrows. "Yes. I don't know. The most likely reason you ...did what you did, was because you want something. Or you need help with something, but I can't imagine why asking me isn't simple enough. Not when we've been friends for so long now. I thought, you know, we were passed that. Um," she took the opportunity to suck in some coffee. Her voice went terribly quiet. "The most unlikely reason – If you meant it, well, the outcome is the same either way."

For Sherlock, the air'd been sucked out of the room around him. "And had I meant it?"

"It wouldn't work," Molly said. "Because I cared about you so much, and you knew that, and you used that-"

"I know," Sherlock rushed out, "I'm sorry, I was-"

"-Married to your work," Molly finished for him and he wanted to shout. That hadn't been what he'd wanted to say. Molly pushed the coffee away and jammed her fists into her eyes, elbows stabbing into the countertop. "I can't do it again. Having those feelings for you, because it hurt and I'd just end up waiting for you to suddenly decide that you don't mean it anymore. It hurts just to talk about it. I stopped, you know, and now I don't hurt anymore and it's been really rather nice."

There was a long breadth of silence.

"I did mean it," Sherlock said faintly.

Molly's eyes went both a little hard and a little sad. "Then I'm sorry."

Sherlock nodded slowly, unable to look at her, unable to acknowledge the lead coated ache that lodged itself heavily in his torso. He started at the sound of a chair grinding against the floor and realized that Molly was standing to leave. He stopped her, but not brave enough to reach out and touch her. "I, uh, I have a case. I'll be leaving. Please, stay, eat your toast. I'm sure you planned on using Barts facilities, but I'll be gone now. You'll have the flat to yourself. I should leave."

Sherlock did not, in fact, have a case. The toast had gone cold, as had the coffee, so he abandoned all of it, walking briskly from the flat with his coat and scarf tucked beneath his arm.

It was early. Dawn was just finally breaking and the wetness of the morning clung to the streets like varnish. Eventually the lights relinquished their glow in surrender to the rising sun and Sherlock wished, just for a moment, that he could've had the darkness to himself for a while longer. He soon found himself at the Watsons' door.

"Christ it's early," John said, robed and blinking at him, stepping aside to let his friend in. "What're you doing here? I've got work at the clinic today."

"I just need to sit for a moment, John," said Sherlock as he found his way to the kitchen. Coffee had already been made, but it was decaf since Mary was breastfeeding and Sherlock drank it anyway out of thirst and cold. He hadn't swallowed a drop back at Baker Street.

He sucked down some water, too, before wandering around and collapsing on the sofa where he toed off his shoes and buried his face in a cushion. At some point upon entering (couldn't remember when) he'd thrown off his coat and scarf. Where they'd landed was a mystery.

"Did you walk here?" asked John as though walking long distances were one of Sherlock's most unusual traits.

"Yes."

"You all right?"

"Fine," was the dismal mumble through a cushion.

John stood in the middle of the room. "Well, I don't believe you, but I'll pretend for a bit. Just be quiet, yeah? Mary and the baby are sleeping." John sighed, adding, "Finally. Thank god. Which frankly sounds wonderful, no thanks to you."

The couch mumbled something unintelligible again. John got ready for work. The door opened and closed after a while and soon the house filled with the scent of bacon, cinnamon and sugar. Any sense of time was swirling around a million thoughts and pulled like light into a black hole where the center focused chaotically on one person. A person who didn't even want him anymore.

A weight and presence settled near his middle.

"Go away, John," mumbled Sherlock.

"Not John," Mary replied, amused. "Though if I were, I'd be within my right to not go anywhere. What's wrong, Sherlock?"

"Stop asking me questions," he groaned. "'Are you all right, Sherlock?' 'What's the matter, Sherlock?' 'What do you need, Sherlock?' What I need is for something to simply go _right._"

"Okay, okay." Mary patted him gently on the shoulder. "You want to watch Alex while I get breakfast on the plates?" she asked as she stood back up. Sherlock rolled somberly over to see Alexandra balanced against her mother's shoulder.

"I'm not hungry," he lied.

"I wasn't actually asking." She thrust the baby towards him and Sherlock was too weary to resist. He took her, settled her squishy body on his chest where she grabbed a fistful of shirt and tried to suck a button into her mouth. He smoothed it back down and pulled her a little further up, where she lay belly down, face tucked against his neck, smelling like diaper cream and baby powder.

Contrary to what most people have expressed, Sherlock didn't hate children. He found them to be far less vacant than people made them out to be and as a result his interactions were less condescending than the way an average adult might deal with them. How this came off as unkind eluded him. At least he didn't so blatantly pretend that children were mindless drooling pets, their wards casting them out of sight and sabotaging their opportunities to learn and thrive.

He wondered if Mary and John were reading to her.

"Clogged arteries on a plate," Mary announced happily as she set one on the coffee table before him. It was stacked with pancakes slathered in butter, syrup, cinnamon and sugar and sided by strips of greasy bacon. An egg dripped over the mess like rain over a rooftop.

No wonder John put on a little weight these days. A great glass of orange juice was set next to the atherosclerosis-in-waiting. Sherlock placed Alex in her carrier where she could fidget and slobber on a pacifier while Mary settled down with her own plate. She had given him twice as much, but her portion was nothing to scoff at.

Sherlock, caseless and hungry, consumed the entire thing.

He would definitely be forced to walk home now.

After a length of silence, the kind where only the sound of chewing and clinking of forks against stoneware could be heard, Mary finished her food and sighed. She lifted her blue slippered feet up on the recliner. "I needed that," she said blissfully.

Sherlock was tired now from the sheer act of chewing. "I'm never coming here in the morning again."

Mary let her cleaned plate rest on her stomach. "Yes, well, John says you've been acting strange."

"Strange is subjective both individually and culturally," Sherlock began. "The word itself implies-"

"-I mean strange for you, and you know it." Mary side-eyed him. "How's Molly? Heard she's living with you."

"She's not '_living with me_', and it's not a '_living arrangement_', according to her," said Sherlock with thinly veiled dismay. "She doesn't want to be there."

"But you want her there?"

"I'm not against her being there."

"Have you been wanting a flatmate?"

Sherlock downed the last drop of juice and gazed contemplatively at his glass. "Who would want me as a flatmate?" he said hollowly and very much aloud, evidenced by Mary's expression. It was something like pity and even more like looking at a hopeless problem.

Alex gurgled and spat out her pacifier. Mary took her back up in her arms. "Well," said Mary, seeing a mandatory subject change. "I don't know why you decided to use our address for your post, but I stuffed a piece of mail in your coat while you were dozing. Looked like an invoice. Don't you do all that online yet?"

Alex wriggled, fussy and hungry, so Sherlock decided that leaving was a good idea. Mary offered to drive him home, but he declined, thanking her for the food and not bothering to escort the dishes to the sink before departing. His politeness meter was extended as far as it would go this morning.

Molly was long gone by the time Sherlock arrived back at the flat. The scent of flowery shampoo lingered in the hall. He'd found it amusing the first time she needed a shower and the only soaps available were his own. "I smell like a man," she'd griped in front of the fireplace, but it hadn't bothered him a bit, having her surrounded by his things.

He sent a text to Lestrade: "**How's the homicide dept? - SH**"

His phone pinged after a few minutes: "**Not terribly busy, sorry.**"

"**I suppose that's considered good, albeit detrimental to my needs. - SH**"

"**Are you OK?**"

Jaw clenched and eyes rolled skyward, Sherlock vowed not to chuck his mobile across the room. He'd grown 'soft' it seemed, but to everyone else he might as well be on drugs. This was all Molly's fault, for sure.

"**Text me when your team becomes stymied, as they invariably do. - SH**"

But no one texted him for the remainder of the day. He solved five cases over the Internet, though, and that might have been an improvement regarding his eternal struggle with boredom if sulking on the couch hadn't followed after.

He needed more tree bark. He wanted more bones. Instead he found Toby and managed to shove a Q-tip in his mouth for a swab of feline saliva. While he was at it he lobbed off a generous chunk of cat hair, leaving a staggered patch of missing fur.

Unfortunately he wasn't kept occupied for long and ended up on the sofa again, or maybe he had been very occupied and the time spent on the sofa wasn't as lengthy as was spent at the microscope. There was no way of knowing, really. The existence of a clock inside Sherlock's head was as useful as a sundial in a cave.

Molly found him when he appeared to be sleeping, but he figured she knew otherwise. He ultimately decided not to fake it, sitting up and providing room for her, as she'd begun to anxiously hover with an apparent need to converse.

"I extracted a heart tumor from a body today," she said, settling next to him. The tension fogged between them awkwardly.

That held a rather interesting promise. "Oh? Bring any of your work home with you?" Home. Hm.

"A fourth. One half will be used for cancer research and I've got a quarter of it in the lab to study macrophages in tumors and cell death. The rest is yours under the condition that you share any useful information with the research team. Their condition, not mine. Though I think it's a fantastic idea."

"Suppose I can't say no to that," he said by way of a thank you. The tense atmosphere finally began to drift away, and his chest betrayed him when it swelled up as he caught Molly's smile.

"You're welcome. Have you eaten? I brought takeout. It's in the kitchen."

"So then you're not leaving?" Sherlock meteorically asked as Molly rose from the sofa.

She slowed, an unsure and complex emotion skating across her face before turning to him with forced ease. "Course not. Why would I leave? Haven't got a new place lined up yet."

Oh.

She'd meant it, the forgetting bit. Obviously she couldn't just delete information in the same way Sherlock boasted of, but damned if she wasn't going to try. His chest, previously swelled, underwent a slow but no less dramatic deflation.

Rather than address it (because Sherlock felt he was being given a better deal than he deserved, really), he followed Molly to the kitchen where they piled their plates high with Indian food, the smell of curried vegetables and butter chicken and chana clouding the flat and drowning out the nagging contrition that buzzed incessantly at the back of Sherlock's mind.

* * *

><p>Somewhere, in a different part of London where a good school was located nearby and the neighbors were friendly, John and Mary Watson were putting baby Alex in her crib for the night, exhausted (who wasn't when a baby was involved?) after hours of crying and no sign of letting up.<p>

When they lumbered into bed, teeth brushed and hair disheveled, John asked his wife how she'd dealt with Sherlock earlier in the day.

Mary's eyes were drooping shut when she answered. "He slept, he ate, he held Alex. Couldn't figure out what was off about him, though. Somethin' to do with Molly."

"Molly? How do you figure that?"

"I'm not sure, but I thought it best not to pry," she said, fading fast. "Honestly, if he were anybody else, anybody - _at all_ - other than Sherlock, I'd say he's bloody well in love with her."

John chuckled heartily. Humor could always be found within the most improbable scenarios.

"Gave him his mail, too," said Mary, answering the beckoning call of sleep.

"Oh, thanks." John shifted to a more comfortable position. He looked up thoughtfully at the ceiling. "You know, I'm sure it was just Sherlock being Sherlock, but there have been so many times when the flat was cluttered beyond belief. Sometimes I thought the floor was a distant memory. It drove Mrs. Hudson barmy."

Mary hummed as astutely as she was able, really only registering the pause in her husband's voice.

John continued. "Guess I'm a little annoyed. I mean really though, since when the hell did Sherlock get a storage unit?"

John reflected on that, shook his head, reached over Mary, and switched off the lamp.

...

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><p>...<p>

AN: Yes, you guys already figured it out. Sherlock is a big bag of dicks. I'd like to thank the folks who've been reviewing these things, guests, favoriters and followers. Those email alerts brighten my dark winter days and reading reviews makes me warm. I also need to get back on tumblr and post more sherlolly comics.


	6. Chapter 6

AN: This chapter is super long. I got wordsy, despite never having anything to say in an author's note. The only thing I want to say are a bunch of thank you's to the folks reading and reviewing this. It means a lot to me. Not a little. A LOT. Also, Merry Christmas and/or your respective Holiday well wishes. I baked apple pie and my sister made a delightful cake with Irish whiskey.

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

A few days later, Molly received information that the insurance folk were "working on it." Apparently it was a difficult process with which she had no prior experience, so she'd not known exactly what questions to ask.

In those few days, Molly had brought to the flat a tibia, a femur, and two more ribs. The femur was MIA (which was terribly strange as it was the largest bone in the human body), and Sherlock added another vertebrae and another set of hand bones. Molly hadn't asked where he'd gotten the vertebrae, but she was certain the hand bones had come from her. Only perhaps in a more fleshier state.

She'd been forced to purchase more clothes as she didn't own enough to last her a week without doing the laundry. Buying clothes turned into buying books and buying books turned into buying flavored tea. Buying flavored tea turned into buying groceries, which meant relegating Sherlock's specimens to the meat drawer of the refrigerator. So in a way it was still being used as was intended, just not that kind of meat.

Sherlock came and went on cases no more than a five, lamenting an uncreative streak in criminals of the current generations. Between cases he could be hatefully chaotic in the kitchen and many containers never contained what was on the label. Salt in the salt shaker? No, it was tartaric acid. Package of dried fruit? Potassium ferricyanide. Molly had spent a free night with a roll of opaque white tape and a felt marker, dedicating her evening with Sherlock in order to relabel what they could. He had put up a fight until Molly threatened to flush a few items of suspect down the toilet.

It'd been a terrible bluff. She would never dispose of chemicals so irresponsibly and Sherlock likely suspected as much, but the point was made and now she didn't have to worry about poisoning herself by innocently preparing a salad.

He hadn't spoken a word about _that_ night.

Sometimes, when they were both at the flat and the quiet was loud, his face would become both very serious and a little soft and Molly was sure he would bring it up. So much was left unsaid and ignored. Then he would stop himself, find something to do, or he'd play the violin, or he'd leave the flat altogether in silent frustration and take a case. Those were the moments Molly thought that maybe she could believe him when he said he'd meant it. Guilt trailed the thought like a comet.

Sherlock hadn't ventured to the lab in over a week and Molly was sure he was avoiding her, at least until he finally dropped in and made an effort in "small talk", though Molly was under the impression that Barts new electron microscope was what drew him in.

"How's your research in macrophages?" he asked from where he'd been waiting for her, attempting to feign only half-interest.

Molly had been fetching processed material of cancer tissues when Sherlock appeared. "It's downstairs, Sherlock," she sighed.

His eyes brightened.

"No, you can't use it. You have to be trained to use it, and there's a queue for it and I'm next."

His eyes dimmed.

"I suppose you can come with me and have a look if you want."

He was out the door and pulling her along before the words were finished.

Molly had never seen him quite so willing to assist another person with their research, but he did so sagaciously. The prepared tumor samples were viewed with more excitement than was appropriate, but only because the images were so clear and defined. Molly showed him the tumor-associated macrophages and blebbing cells undergoing apoptosis, and he was all too happy to capture the images until another scientist complained of infringement on their allotted time.

It was easygoing. Molly liked easygoing with Sherlock.

They left Barts together at the end of her shift. The air was getting colder the further into autumn they spun, the days only getting darker. It reminded Molly to find a place before it was too gray and wet to comfortably make a new home.

Steps away from the hospital, Sherlock's phone rang, sounding distant amidst the bustle of London traffic. He checked the screen, glanced at Molly, and slowly answered with an arduous, "Hello, Mum."

Molly stuffed her tongue into her cheek to keep from smiling.

"You're... I'm sorry, where? Right now?" Sherlock's shoulders tilted downwards. "...Yes. Yes. No, I'm afraid I'll be there shortly," he grumbled. "Bye, Mum."

Giving up any pretense of impassivity, Molly grinned widely as they continued to the street. Sherlock hailed a cab.

"Shut up," he said at her, scowling. They piled into the car and Sherlock said nothing the whole way there as he stared out the window, concrete and cars flying past. Eventually the irritated frown disappeared, replaced with thoughtful rumination and rhythmically tapping fingers.

Molly tried to pay for the ride, but Sherlock beat her to it. They stood on the sidewalk, staring up at the window of the flat as Sherlock heaved a great put upon sigh.

Tugging at his sleeve, Molly said, "I can just go into Speedy's for a bit if you'd like."

"No," Sherlock shook his head resolutely. "If I get to suffer an impromptu visit from my parents, then so do you."

Molly had no idea what could possibly be so insufferable about Sherlock's parents; John said they were lovely.

Upstairs, Mrs. Hudson was entertaining the Holmes, a happy and robust looking couple, with tea and biscuits and exchanging ostensibly ridiculous stories about their shared consulting detective. They looked up whilst laughing gaily at the entrance of their subject of conversation; they stood immediately when they saw Molly.

Sherlock kissed his mother's cheek and greeted his father as though he'd been badgered into it. They only half paid attention, as they were rather focused on Molly, who stood awkwardly and wondering if she shouldn't have just gone down to Speedy's for a coffee, after all.

"Mum, Dad," Sherlock came around and pushed Molly further into the room. "This is Molly Hooper. She's a pathologist at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Molly, these are my parents, Siger and Violet Holmes."

Their smiles couldn't get larger if a knife sliced across their lips. Molly knew what that look meant on the faces of parental units. Not her's, of course. Not a boyfriend's either. Perhaps she'd never actually seen it, but she knew what it meant, damn it, and she suddenly wanted to jump out of the window.

"Molly is my new flatmate," he tacked on, much to Molly's discomfiture.

"It's temporary," she hastily added. "I'm having, ah, issues with my own place."

Mrs. Holmes shook her hand without hesitation. "Say no more," she said. "I'm not one to pry." Molly thought she was definitely one to make assumptions, however, but at least they were positive.

Mr. Holmes took her hand with both of his. It was warm and inviting and left a sharp pang in the heart, somewhere in the hole where her father used to take residence. She liked him instantly. This made her somehow nervous.

"H-Have you had dinner yet?" Molly stammered, remembering her manners as the couple took up the sofa. She mentally divided the remaining portions of last night's chicken florentine.

"We grabbed something to eat at a delightful little place, what was it called?" Mrs. Holmes looked to her husband, who shrugged. "I don't remember the name," she went on, "But it was lovely. Perfect addition for going to the symphony on such a gorgeous evening."

"You went to the symphony?" Sherlock frowned. "Whenever you come to London you try to drag me or Mycroft to some horrible play, but it's the symphony you don't think I'd appreciate?"

Mrs. Hudson stood to leave the family, or maybe to find more biscuits. "Nobody knows what you enjoy anymore, dear," she said.

"I play the violin, Mrs. Hudson."

"Lord knows, I sometimes wish you didn't."

"Do you still play that thing at two in the morning?" chided his mother.

"Three in the morning, four, five, pretty sure every hour is fair game," Molly said. This comment earned her sympathetic but jocular chortles. An eye roll from Sherlock.

"And where are you staying this time?" Sherlock asked, making two cups of tea. He passed one politely to Molly, who sat in John's chair.

His father answered, "Mycroft set us up at the Dorchester, over in-"

"-Mayfair, yes." It wasn't difficult to pick up on Sherlock's becoming bored with the pleasantries. In an unexplainable way, though, it was apparent to Molly that he genuinely cared about his parents. Loved them. This was easy to observe, even while trying not to balk at the price tag a room at the Dorchester might've cost.

They stayed for a long time, drawing energy from a source that passed its genes down to their son. It was all jovial conversation (not so much for Sherlock), and "_call me Violet, please_" and "_it's Siger, dear, if you don't mind_", and they were so friendly and informal. As much as Molly fought it, however, she couldn't stop the yawn from cavernously splitting her face. The long-empty teacup tilted in her hand.

Sherlock came to its rescue, depositing it on the table. "Perhaps you should get some rest, Molly."

Her eyes had been dropping down. She sucked in a deep breath in an attempt to wake up, but decided that sleep sounded fantastic. After a trip to the bathroom and farewells, Molly made her way out and up the stairs to John's old room, unable to shake the gazes burning into the back of her head. It left her with the distinct impression of being watched and letting the watchers down by not going to Sherlock's bedroom.

For Sherlock, it was immensely uncomfortable.

He waited until his parents diverted their attentions back to him. "Must you be so obvious?"

"Can you blame us?" responded his mother. "Name one time you ever brought a girl home to meet your parents and I'll eat my shoes."

Sherlock didn't bother racking his brain for that one. It was a losing battle. He sat stoically, an almost accusing glare aimed at his parents until someone cracked and broke the silence.

It was Siger who prodded the elephant in the room. "So? Are you seeing each other?"

"We see each other all the time."

"Is she your girlfriend, Sherlock?"

"No. Now, it's rather late," Sherlock interrupted, standing up. "I'm sure you're both very tired, long drive ahead of you tomorrow, yes? If in the unfortunate event you see Mycroft, please don't give him my love." Sherlock opened the door, stuck his head out, shouting, "What's that, Mrs. Hudson? Yes of course!" He drew back in and ushered his mother out of the door. "Mrs. Hudson wants to discuss pie recipes with you."

Violet reached up and pulled Sherlock's head down, smacking a kiss on his cheek. "Someday, you're going to chat with me about things properly," she said and shuffled down the stairs. Siger tried to follow, but his son had closed the door and looked at him seriously.

"Wait," said Sherlock. "I need to ...ask you something." His father, epitome of patience, waited gamely for his son to collect his ever racing thoughts. "How did you and mum ...happen?"

Siger furrowed his brow. "We've told you before, haven't we?"

"I know that Mum hated you at first, until there was an understanding. You've never told me how you won her over. How did you reach an understanding? Why didn't you both just give up and move on?"

There was a reminiscent look in Siger's eyes of fond recollection. "My boy," he said, "I loved your mother. How could I move on when I knew I could never forget her? So I got my act together. I stuck to my manners. I got persistent, respectfully, mind you. And I expressed myself. There was an ember there, you see."

"An ember."

"She never _really_ hated me, I'd supposed, so I never _really_ lost hope. A man should always know when to back off, but for me -for us- there was an ember, and if there's an ember, you can always kindle a flame."

A grotesque look crossed Sherlock's face. "That's disgustingly romantic."

"It is what it is," was Siger's response. "Better learn to be a little romantic."

There was stomping up the stairs and Sherlock opened the door, the face of innocence as his mother scowled at him. "You rotten boy!" she cried. "Mrs. Hudson was asleep and I went and knocked on her door like a bloody ogre! What's wrong with you, telling me lies like that?"

"You'll wake her again if you continue to carry on, my dear," said Siger, passing through the door after clasping a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He laced his fingers with his wife's and she instantly calmed, leaving Sherlock to watch them descend the stairway and wondering at the loving, almost invisible way people showed affection. A silent, never ending dance filled with conversation given without words.

Well, Sherlock loved to dance. All that was left was to be persistent. He hoped more than anything that an ember was still burning somewhere in the heart of Molly Hooper. He was beginning to feel cold.

An opportunity later presented itself at Barts lab.

After the arrival of the new electron microscope, there seemed to be less people in the regular path lab. Molly sometimes missed the company; Sherlock reveled in the lack of it. With less people present to bother him, he took the opportunity to make copper salts by dissolving copper oxide in hydrochloric acid. He wore safety glasses and neoprene gloves that reached up to his elbows. A pen dangled in his mouth from previous note taking, but after handling various chemicals he couldn't remove it without removing his gloves. And really, that was just too much work.

In the copper oxide went. It bubbled and dissolved and became one with the acid when Molly walked in with two labelled jars of formalin soaked specimens.

Standing, Sherlock opened his mouth to issue a greeting when the pen fell, clipped the lip of the beaker, and took an acid bath. Curious, Molly came and stood beside him as they watched the plastic burn and bubble and the blue inky cloud bleb and dissolve away.

"Right," Sherlock concluded dismissively. "Lunch?"

"You're not going anywhere until you clean that up," Molly gestured to the Experiments of Boredom. "Everyone's sick of tidying up after you. Where'd you get that, anyway?"

"Our very guilty suspect tried to poison a few people, one more successfully than the rest. I helped myself to some of his stock since he won't be needing it anymore."

"So you robbed a crime scene."

"Absolutely not," Sherlock said, affronted. "I stole it from his flat."

Molly shelved the formalin samples and made as if to leave. "Just make sure you get the overhead fan on, yeah?"

"Yes, yes. I'll meet you outside. I won't be long."

Molly halted. "What?"

Did he miss something? He had been feeling a little under the weather since he last slept. The poison case had required a larger fraction of brain power than usual. "Lunch," Sherlock repeated. "You've got a break in fifteen minutes."

"Oh. Oh, you were-"

"-asking you to lunch, yes."

Underneath the thick rubber gloves, Sherlock felt his palms dampen as Molly fidgeted, finding her shoes incredibly interesting. "I, um, I don't think – maybe we shouldn't-"

_Don't let her say no_, he thought. "It's just lunch, Molly," he said, voice having grown thick. "I'm not asking for anything else."

She nearly short-circuited with the length of time needed to answer. "Alright," she nodded. "Friends do lunch all the time, why can't we? I'll see you outside."

Sherlock was left alone to think.

Acid had to be neutralized before proper disposal. The neutralization process involved a fair amount of fumes which, if inhaled, could be tremendously hazardous. Sherlock numbly flipped the ventilation fan on for this reason and the rest of the clean-up process was done on autopilot. _Friends_. Her voice, an echo in his head, fed him that word over and over, and he found the taste undesirable.

God, the lab was cold today. He shivered.

True to her word, Molly was waiting on the steps just outside the door bundled in a ridiculous striped puffer coat. She smiled meekly at him when he approached and he vaguely wondered why he had pushed her away so much in the past rather than embrace her. The feeling both hurt and warmed him, but the warmth continued to outweigh the pain and it only got warmer with time. Not knowing when it would eventually burn was perhaps a reason for distance, but Sherlock had made the decision that the risk was well worth it.

He directed them to a small eatery on a corner one block over. The briskness in the air caused him need for a handkerchief from his coat pocket and when he reached inside, the edges of an envelope brushed his fingertips. A frigidness brushed against his chest as well when he remembered the invoice and the storage unit it was for. _This was getting out of hand_, he thought. He had to tell Molly. This wasn't something he could keep from her indefinitely, but if he told her, it would snuff out any stupid hypothetical ember that burned for him.

"What's wrong? You look pale," Molly stated, standing at his side.

"I'm fine," he tried to smile. He knew it was insincere, too busy trying not to loathe himself when he read the concern on her face. He would tell her, he decided, but not today. Not right now. Right now he would spend an hour sharing a meal with her. He could tell her about the poison case and impress her and look for the spark of admiration if it'd still light her eyes.

They continued on and the little bell on the door ringed out. Sherlock ordered them sandwiches and coffee while Molly chose a place to sit far from the door. The draft, she declared, was awful.

She ate and listened while Sherlock told her about his case, just as he'd hoped. Molly was more medically inclined than he was (not that he would admit it out loud), so when offered the chance to explain the more complex aspects of chemistry, as was the case with the poisoner, it felt as though he could go on forever, particularly when Molly chimed in with questions and he'd get to answer in as pellucid a way as he was able.

She was interested, Sherlock was pleased to note.

Then he felt another chill and coughed, running a little dizzy and realized that his sandwich was largely uneaten. He could have sworn he was hungry, not having eaten since before the case. He should be ravenous.

Molly was looking at him with some distress. "I'm sorry, but don't move, okay?" she said, and suddenly she was reaching over the table and pressing the palm of her hand against his forehead. It was soft and smooth and he could smell the hospital issued disinfecting soap and hand cream. He hadn't realized how hot his face had felt until the soothing coolness of her skin touched his.

She held the back of her hand to his cheek then, and he was inwardly disappointed when she pulled away.

"Sherlock," she said slowly, "You're sick."

"Am I?"

"You have a fever. You need to get home and rest."

She had his food boxed up, and he didn't have the energy to argue.

They were outside and Molly was hailing a cab, one hand holding onto the crook of his elbow. Sherlock found that he liked her there, holding onto him, until he remembered that she was under the impression he might keel over from illness. After they loaded into a taxi, Sherlock felt a twinge of motion sickness for the first time he could remember and was grateful when the ride was over. Molly even paid the fare, but that only drove home the feeling of a failed lunch that he'd intended as important.

He would try again when he gets another chance.

Upstairs, she helped him with his coat. "Go and get in your PJ's and get into bed," she ordered.

"I'm a grown man, Molly, I should think I can take care of myself." The words were said, but the truth was that he really rather liked the idea of Molly taking care of him right now.

"I'm sure you can," she replied, following up with, "Since you're so brilliant at keeping a regular sleeping schedule and eating everyday."

"Hmm, point taken."

"Get into bed and I'll bring you some tea. I need to go back to work in a bit."

Sherlock obeyed, stumbling into his bedroom and observing a mess, which really wouldn't do at all. He was normally clean about his room, despite his lack of having a care for the rest of the flat. Still, Molly seeing this was unacceptable, so after changing quickly into a tee shirt and sweats, he folded his suit and began tidying the room, folding clothes and throwing what he could into the closet or sweeping debris under the bed. Marginally satisfied, he climbed under the sheets and it wasn't until the weight was completely off his feet that a sickly sort of exhaustion clouded over him.

Molly came in not long after. She set down a mug of tea and indicated for him to sit up. He did so, a tall glass of water and paracetamol forced into his hands which he knocked back with a gulp of water. But then he couldn't stop drinking and ended up feeling like an unwatered plant. Molly left to refill the glass, coming back to place it on the nightstand along with a thermometer.

"I've got a few more hours on my shift. You gonna be okay?" she asked, sitting on the bed beside him.

He almost said no, that he needed her there, but he didn't. "I'll be fine, I don't need any fussing."

"I could always tell Mrs. Hudson. Then you'll know the meaning of fussing."

"Always knew you had a mean streak in you."

She laughed. "I'll see you later. Take your temperature, alright? And if you need anything from the store, text me, okay?"

"Bring me back a heart," he said.

"They don't sell those at the store. Haven't got one at Barts for you."

The words '_just give me yours, then_' sounded too disgustingly mawkish even in his head, so they died before reaching the tip of his tongue. Molly pat him on the shoulder, said goodbye, and Sherlock fell into a dream-filled sleep while the tea went untouched and cold on the nightstand.

It was a long, wonderfully endless dream where he lay as he was on the bed, but he wasn't alone, wasn't clothed, and was far from sick. Molly was there with him, sometimes beneath him, sometimes above, but always with her arms around him. He held her close in turn through the darkness that fogged the corners of his dream, where whispers of adoration flowed from his lips uncensored, but raw and sincere and _right._

It was in this dream that he made her move under him and he moved within her and she sighed in contentment, her hand emerging from the shadows between them to rest against his cheek, soothing his heated skin like she'd done not long ago.

Like all good things that seemed joyously never ending, there was an ending. Sherlock woke. Worse, he woke sweaty and hot and hard as a rock. He groaned amongst the shattered illusions and an importunate hard-on.

He glanced up from the pillow where he'd buried his face. The sun had set long ago and he could hear Molly puttering about in the kitchen. A damp flannel was folded on the nightstand and Sherlock felt himself burn with mortification at the thought that Molly'd been in his room while he was having salacious dreams about her, so he could only hope that he wasn't predisposed to sleep-talking.

He waited for a time, until he was somewhat decent and certain bits were a little more relaxed before crawling out of bed and into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.

When he was done and out padding into the kitchen, aromas warm and savory wrapped around him like wispy rivers of smoke. Molly was tending to something brothy and boiling on the stove. Surprise flashed briefly when she saw him up and about, followed by a smile. "How are you feeling?" she asked, spoon in hand.

"Drugged," he answered. "I can't remember the last time I was ill. What are you making?"

"Chicken and rice soup. It's almost done if you'd like to sit."

Sherlock did so at the island, glancing into the sitting room where a fire blazed in the hearth.

"I meant your chair in front of the fire," she said, looking over a shoulder at him. "Where it's warm."

"But you're in here," he pointed out, not understanding how that must've sounded to her until a gentle blush painted her cheeks. It was becoming.

Before long, helpings of piping hot soup were ladled out into bowls. Molly took hers to the sitting room where she folded her legs beneath her and Sherlock followed, foregoing a spoon and drinking from the bowl. "Mm," he had rumbled appreciatively after the first taste. "Definitely not from a can."

The fire crackled steadily as they sipped at their portions.

Molly watched it before saying with an awkward start, "They say to feed a cold and starve a flu, but I'd always known that was rubbish." She stirred her food. "I learned to make this when my dad first took ill, thinking he would get better. Then we got the news. And, well, can't really cure everything with chicken soup, can you?"

Sherlock didn't know what to reply with. He didn't know if he should try.

Molly continued regardless. "Your parents the other night - they were lovely. I can't help but confess that I was a little jealous." She attempted a smile and shrugged. "Which is silly. I still have a mother and I've been thinking that she won't live forever and life is short and all that. I thought maybe I would try to reconnect."

Sherlock found that too sentimental. Why bother to reconnect with someone you hate? Just because you were bound by blood didn't mean you had to acknowledge one another on a regular basis, or pretend to care about the other, or even send a Christmas card. Then again, Sherlock didn't know the particular details of Molly's estrangement from her family.

"Is that wise?" he asked.

"Probably not," Molly shrugged. "I don't know. I suppose I have a familial duty to try, though."

"I imagine those duties would fall on your mother's shoulders just as much as they would yours. Why bother reaching out and suffering the potential embarrassment and hurt when it fails?"

Molly looked at him sharply. "Don't try to make me feel bad for trying," she said.

Sherlock wasn't understanding, much as he tried. "I'm not, but you are willing to subject yourself to a great deal of stress for quite possibly nothing."

"Or it's not nothing and I might get-" she looked around the room at nothing and everything. "-I might get to have a mum again. It would be difficult at first. We'd have to get to know each other again, but I think in the long term it's... it's good."

If Sherlock were a more sentimental man (though he was learning), he would have marveled at Molly's capacity for love, at the same time wondering if it had been reduced somewhere along the way seeing as he'd been summarily squeezed out of her heart. That was the sick talking, he told himself, staring steadily into the hearth. Then again, perhaps he _hadn't_ been squeezed out. She'd made soup just for him, after all.

"How do you know she'd be just as willing to reacquaint herself with you?" Sherlock asked.

Molly pursed her lips. "Because after ten years she still has the same phone number."

"You called her."

"We're meeting for lunch in about three weeks, next door." Her smile was optimistically nervous. "She's in town for a whole month on a business trip. It's a little far out, but it was the only time we both had available, I guess. Don't think I can catch up ten years' worth of time on one lunch hour. I'm ...happy. I think. I hope."

Sherlock wisely, and for once, kept his remaining reservations to himself. Three weeks seemed a terribly long time to make room for one's daughter. He found this rather telling about Molly Hooper's mother. He schooled his features into indifference.

"I'm so sorry," Molly said suddenly, most likely misreading his expression. "I didn't mean to bother you with all of this-"

"-You're not bothering me."

"It's just that your mum was so lively and open-"

"-Molly," Sherlock cut her off with that inflection that always commanded listeners. "It's fine. I'm..." He made a face like he was tasting foreign food and had yet to form an opinion on it. "...pleased that you found the company of my parents enjoyable. And inspiring, apparently."

He must have done well assuaging her worry, as she leaned calmly back into the chair, empty bowl on her lap. A little sheepishly, she asked, "You gonna be up for a while?" she asked him.

"I imagine so. I've just slept for hours."

"You'll need more rest anyway. How do you feel?"

"I'm fine, Molly," he sighed. "Just a chill. There's no need to carry on."

Molly didn't reply, but she took both bowls to the kitchen sink. When she came back she swept a plaid throw blanket from John's chair and tossed it over Sherlock who stayed very still as she turned it down from covering his head.

Impulsively, he dug an arm free of the wool, reached out, and grabbed her hand. Both pairs of eyes locked onto the same point of contact as the grip softened, fingers lax as he ran a thumb over her knuckles, smooth as silk, conveying a tenderness that went without words. Molly gently pulled her hand free, leaving Sherlock to gaze sullenly at his empty palm.

Resistance. Rejection. He deserved it. He'd gotten every chance in the world and he had countered them all with a range of attitudes alternating from maliciousness to disregard to passivity. Now he was just being selfish.

He didn't expect Molly to sit back down. He assumed she would've run back to her room, away from him, but she seemed intent to forget what he'd just done as the hazy glow of fire danced across her face. And of course, Sherlock couldn't seem to keep from hearing his own voice.

"Do you still care for me?" he found himself asking, hating the way her face pinched up.

"Course I do," she answered.

"But not the way you used to."

Molly took a deep breath and exhaled in a great whoosh. "No."

"Is there a chance you might feel that way for me again?"

"Why are you asking me that?" Molly countered, but the question wasn't at all malicious, seeing as she didn't know the truth herself. "What would you do with those feelings if I still had them? You say you're sorry for using them against me, but I can't see how you wouldn't do that now."

"Because I didn't realize what I had then - or what I could've had with you," said Sherlock. "I've changed since I've come back, since John was married, since- since a lot of things. Perhaps my personal growth has been small in general, but it has been considerable when it comes to you. And now I don't believe I can see you every day and not try to do something about it."

Sherlock watched as her face grew taut.

He soldiered on. "That man, in the morgue, the one who struck you? I was enraged, Molly. I hadn't realized why and how deep that anger went until that stupid financier spoke about you in ways that were unbefitting." Sherlock took a deep breath. "I've messed up a lot, I know that. Let me fix it. Let me improve my standing with you."

Molly toyed with a loose thread at the hem of her shirt, careful to avoid Sherlock's heavy gaze. "We're friends now," she said. "I think that's an improvement, don't you?"

He felt a sudden, acute sense of disappointment. "We've always been friends."

Molly smiled with a sarcastic sort of self-deprecation. "Is that why no one thought I counted?"

"I've told you-"

"-Did you tell Janine that she mattered? Or did she get prettier lies?"

"That's not fair," Sherlock growled, flustered and annoyed at the way she brushed aside the words he'd found so difficult to say. "It wasn't real. It was for a case, if anyone cares to remember." He sighed, electing not to share the sliver of remorse for his actions. Looking Molly in the eyes, he said, "Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think me so capable of- of feelings that I could profess them just as easily as donning a pair of socks?"

"I think you're an actor who can use and discard a person just as easily as _changing_ a pair of socks."

"I'm not acting," he said as genuinely as he could. He continued, because if he had to admit to being human, the least he could do was be honest about it. "I'm not manipulating. It's true that I've never loved, but perhaps I'm not, in fact, incapable of..." Sherlock tried to steady himself. Despite being seated, the room spun around him like a carousel.

Molly watched him, concerned but wary. "I don't think you're incapable of that sort of love. I just think if it were for anyone, it wouldn't be for me. And you're not the only one who's changed. I did, too. I think I stopped trusting you and I don't know exactly when that happened. But it makes sense that I can't love someone if I can't trust them, if love is even the right word. And sometimes I wonder if I was simply too infatuated for my own good." She folded her hands in her lap, waiting a beat before saying, "I'm ...I'm sorry if that sounds cruel."

Sherlock wondered if the feeling of being awash with vertigo was due to sickness or the words being heard. He tried to collect himself from the moving walls by focusing on the hearth until his eyes burned, but it didn't work and Molly looked ready to speak again.

He didn't feel like handling that, so he stood, the wool blanket dropping to pool at his feet before he stumbled towards his room. He made it through the kitchen, a foot into the hall before Molly caught his arm and steadied him.

The touch momentarily renewed him. Swiveling around, Sherlock took her shoulders and pressed her backwards against the wall as he loomed over her. "That was cruel," he graveled out, nerves burning hot and frigidly cold. "But it's no less than I deserve. I've been endeavoring to make amends with you, but perhaps my intentions should be more clear and ...proper. If you would allow it. I won't push you and I'll back off at your word, and if you still don't want to be involved with me in such a way, then I'll ...I'll accept that. I'll never mention it again."

"You're asking me to give you a chance," Molly breathed.

"Yes."

She was torn nearly to the point of tears. "...I don't know."

"May I take that as a tentative yes?"

Eyes squeezed shut in a heroic effort to compose herself, and completely against all good judgement, she nodded.

Sherlock was certain that he would have kissed her had he not been sick. In the end, he was glad to be ill, or else Molly would have called off his little "trial period" very quickly when faced with that level of enthusiasm. Instead, he gave her shoulders a gentle squeeze before going to his room with the certainty of his dreams being very good indeed.

He locked the bedroom door.

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AN: I think I'll draw some silly fanart this weekend. If you guys have tumblr accounts, please visit me! Url is Lizakabashka. I've been in an art slump and need to get my ass on that sketchbook!


	7. Chapter 7

AN: Sorry about this. It's pretty much another filler chapter. I'll get a good one on here soon, I promise!

**Quick warning:** Sherlock deduces a hanging suicide in this chapter.

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It took a few tumultuous days for Sherlock to recover. Most of the time was spent sleeping until he'd wake, quickly becoming bored and obstreperous as he emerged from his cave. At one point he'd thrown a Persian slipper across the room when he couldn't find a cigarette for alleviation, and was still in a strop when Molly'd come back from work. That was followed by a visit from John who laced the tea with a sedative, and a period of Sherlock-free silence was gifted unto Baker Street.

Molly had only gone into his room twice. Once to bring him Chinese eggflower soup, and another when his fever had finally broken. She'd sat beside him and mopped the sweat from his brow, brushing aside the hair that had plastered itself darkly to his forehead. When his eyes weren't shut in rest he was staring tiredly at her, being progressively grabby by pawing at her hands and pressing her palm to his face where the growing scruff tickled her skin.

Molly knew he was well and recovered when he'd bounded around the flat one morning, rambling about a possible nine with shaving cream smothering half his face. So startled was she by the domesticity of seeing Sherlock having a shave, she'd dropped a slice of eggy bread while it made its way to the stove. He'd left her alone after that, finishing his hygienic grooming routine, dressing, and finally running out of the flat without a bite to eat. Just before he'd left, however, he'd planted a kiss right smack on Molly's head, just above an eyebrow. She was left gaping with a spatula in one hand and lingering on the thought that he smelled better than the breakfast she was cooking.

At the lab, he'd showed up half way through her shift with a dozen hair samples, bearing coffee not only for himself, but for her and John as well. John spent time giving them each a funny look which she pretended to ignore and Sherlock couldn't be bothered to notice. Molly had been indisposed with her own work, but happily stopping to assist now and then.

They'd barely spoken to one another during that time until Sherlock leapt up with exuberant victory, telling John to go ahead of him and call a cab. The second the door shut behind him was when Sherlock invaded Molly's space, slapping her with another quick kiss on the head, and following after his friend.

The case took four days.

The conclusion was interesting, if a bit frightening. And humiliating. At eleven in the evening there was a calamitous stomping up the stairs that ended with John dragging in a severely drugged Sherlock while Mrs. Hudson trailed worryingly after. Molly slammed the laptop closed and rushed over to help settle the detective on the sofa where he proceeded to mumble disjointed words and the occasional "I knew the cat saw everything!"

"Before you jump to any conclusions," said John at Molly's perturbed look, "the water he drank was about to be forced on a kid who probably wouldn't have survived it."

Despite that reasonable and noble defense, Molly despaired over another potentially sick Sherlock. "He just got over the flu."

"He'll be fine," John assured. "Gave him some activated charcoal at the clinic. He'll be good as new by morning. To be honest, this really isn't as bad as last time."

"Last time...?" Molly echoed faintly.

"I hope so," Mrs. Hudson worried. "I don't think I can put up with more yelling. Do you think you can maintain him, Molly?"

"Why am I suddenly his keeper?"

John shook with a pitying laugh. "You're his flatmate now. Comes with the job."

"Molly!" Sherlock slurred, twitching on the sofa. "Molly lives with me now. How are you, Molly? Are you well? I'm tanfastic, thanks for asking."

She chose not to engage him.

"Solved the case, you know. That daycare will never operate again, not if I have say to anything about it, and I can...anything... quite a lot. Have we any Thai food? I haven't eaten in days, I've a hankering for Thai."

"Don't feed him yet," John said. "He'll only throw it up. Get something in him in the morning."

"It won't be Thai," Molly said meekly.

"He won't even remember this conversation. Just give him anything."

"Thai food, Molly!" Sherlock cried, throwing his arm in the air and gracelessly flipping over onto his stomach. He drove one side of his face into a cushion for the advantage of his rather captivated audience. "Thai for dinner. Pudding, Molly."

John humored him by asking, "You want Thai for dinner and dessert?"

"No, no, no," Sherlock argued, and he flopped around like a fish in his objections. "I want Thai for dinner. I want _Molly_ for dessert."

The flat descended into an embarrassing silence and everyone froze. Dust motes in the air froze and Molly was pretty sure London itself froze. Despite the sudden frosty epidemic, her ears and face went unbearably hot.

John slowly turned to her, breaking the glacial illusion, and opened his mouth. Then he shut it again. He looked at Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson and finally back to Molly when he scratched the back of his head and said, "Yeah, I should really get home."

"I'll see you out," Mrs. Hudson offered anxiously.

"He's drugged," Molly said at their backs. "He's not been making a lick of sense since you dumped him off! That," she gestured wildly at the prone form on the sofa, "is not what it sounds like."

John's face was strained with the effort to conceal his mirth. The door closed behind him and Mrs. Hudson, just before he declared through the door a muffled, "He's all yours!" in a very cheeky way, leaving Molly alone with the detective who, in a crass way of putting it, was 'tripping balls'.

Toby played witness from beneath Sherlock's chair.

Molly jumped in alarm when he suddenly began to dry heave, and she rushed a pot from the kitchen to the sofa in record time, helping him over the edge as his curly head hung over the side, the pot collecting a steady rivulet of drool.

"Perhaps you should have gone to a hospital," Molly told him gently.

Sherlock didn't reply, other than to spit the last vestiges of mucus and stomach acids into the pot. Perhaps it was a good thing he'd been running on an empty stomach.

"Need help to the loo?" she asked. Curls bobbed in affirmation.

The remainder of the night was spent helping Sherlock brush his teeth, use the toilet (really, she only helped him wash his hands after that one), and drowning him with water. He smelled terrible, but the line was drawn at helping him in the bath.

Eventually he'd fallen deep asleep in his bedroom, fully clothed and Molly checked in on him throughout the night to make sure he hadn't died. "I'm doing a terrible job at winning you over, aren't I?" he'd mumbled sadly, half awake when she'd gone in and pressed a hand to his forehead.

They both slept in late the following day.

When Molly trudged down the stairs at almost noon, feeling like she'd been the one drugged, she found Sherlock showered, but in pajamas at the kitchen counter and scarfing down every food item they had. It all laid out before him like a pregnant woman's variable buffet: an open container of week old egg-rolls, a block of cheese, leftover pasta smothered in alfredo sauce, biscuits, dinner rolls, crumpets. The list grew because Molly remembered stocking that fridge herself.

Sherlock was washing his eclectic breakfast down with a cup of tea. At the sight of her, he fetched a mug and filled it, pushing it in her direction and following her eyes and thought processes as she took in the state of their sustenance.

"I, um," he clumsily began packing up the food and stuffing it in the fridge. "I couldn't decide what to eat. Taste buds seem to have gone haywire."

"Maybe you're pregnant."

"That would be terrible news for my coffee habit."

She took a seat. Looked him over. "How're you doing?"

He shrugged. "Bit of a headache and a few bruises I don't recall obtaining," he said, leaving the bread out. Molly stood and reached for it, intent on making toast. Sherlock watched her apprehensively. "I didn't do anything out of line, did I?"

Molly let out a short laugh, thinking about that scandalous dessert remark. "'Course not. I'm still here, aren't I?"

"And you're still in your pajamas."

"So are you."

Sherlock looked down at himself. "So I am. But I haven't got a case, what's your excuse?"

"Day off," she sighed. "I do have to get ready though. I'm-"

"-Spend it with me."

"-looking at flats... What?"

Sherlock stared into his tea, tapping his fingers anxiously against it. "Spend the day with me. We can do whatever it is you want," he said, looking up at her. "If that's looking at flats, then we'll look at flats, but I highly doubt that any of them would be as suitable as Baker Street. This is a central location, easy distance, all that."

Molly frowned. "Sherlock-"

"No," he cut her off admonishingly. "You said you would let me try. I messed up during lunch last time-"

"-You were sick. And that wasn't even a date."

"Wasn't it?" He soldiered on loquaciously. "I can go with you and we'll waste time looking at unaffordable accommodations, you'll be displeased with all of them, we go find an activity of interest, and then dinner. Out, if you like. We'd have dinner ...out. Or coffee. I've read that coffee is preferable in order to prevent any pressure on the woo-ee, that's you, so ...no pressure. Tell me, have you ever been to the Hunterian Museum?"

The toast sprung up, burnt.

Sherlock continued. "Or we can put bones together if that's more agreeable. The femur is still missing, unfortunately, but there are plenty more parts to put together, so we still have a 'leg up', you could say, on that project."

Molly actually snorted and covered her mouth, choking down laughter.

And since when had his project become theirs? Sherlock just looked pleased. "Alright," she gave in. "But I need a shower. You can wait for keeping me up all night."

With no objections, Molly went about her morning routine despite the lunch hour. Sherlock hailed a cab when they hit the street and Molly checked the hour and times listed on her mobile. Sherlock peered over her shoulder.

"You had appointments set up," he said, indifferently.

"Yep."

"You didn't tell me."

"Couldn't you deduce it?"

Sherlock frowned.

They arrived at the first building, a tri-story with a garish old paint job and a termite infested wooden fence surrounding a three foot strip of sparse grass. It looked a little bit like Baker Street without the charm and upkeep. The brickwork was cracking and the windows were fifty years old, single paned. Molly gripped the hand rail on the steps which broke off at the slightest lean and she'd have tumbled if Sherlock hadn't caught her around the waist. He pried the rail from her fingers.

After knocking loudly (the doorbell was broken, not surprisingly), Sherlock held the rail out to the expensively but casually dressed owner who'd recently inherited a large sum of money and was downplaying his wealth –enough to fix up the place- and said, "You'll be hearing from the proper housing agencies soon for numerous habitation violations. Good day!" And he reached in, slammed the door shut, and marched Molly back to the waiting cab.

She watched the house disappear into the distance. "That- "

"-Was multiple lawsuits just waiting to happen, yes, I'm glad we agree. Next?"

She gave the cabbie a new address and they were soon pulled up before a moderate four story building. It appeared well kept, with a little bit of rustic charm. Molly glanced at Sherlock, watching him scrutinize the place with an indifferent poker face. It was a bit further from Bart's than her previous flat, but the tube station wasn't far at all.

Half way to the door, a young jaunty man came out to greet them, shaking their hands and ushering them inside, where he led them upstairs to a wide windowed unit with large exposed beams caging the ceiling.

"No," Sherlock said after one look.

Molly looked at him sharply. "What?"

"There was either a murder or a suicide here. Give me twenty seconds and I'll let you know which."

The other man cleared his throat as Sherlock circled the sitting room. "That's ridiculous. Look, Mr. Holmes, I understand you're a detective, but this isn't-"

"-Who are you again?" Sherlock stopped, peered at him, then went back to examining a window.

The man couldn't choose between being offended or being confused. "James. Doug James," he said.

"Well, Mr. James, I'm unaware of the last recent showing you've had of this flat, but I can tell you there was a very recent suicide while the property was still vacant. A hanging, actually. Look, you can still see bits of rope fiber stuck to the beam."

Molly tilted her head to where Sherlock indicated. A few strands of synthetic fibers were stuck to the splintered wood and shining in the afternoon sun. She felt a wave of sadness just then, at the still, stale bindings of rope.

"Gouges in the wood flooring beneath, indicating a chair was kicked away. A terrible end, really. He was a co-owner in the property which is experiencing multiple bureaucratic land issues after he'd taken out multiple –and highly suspect- loans on the property. I'm sure eviction proceedings will begin within a year in light of the anticipated gentrification." Sherlock looked over at Molly, a little smugly before it was replaced with concern at her distress.

Doug James looked like he'd be ill.

"Anyway, I do believe suicides should be disclosed to potential tenants. At least to Molly Hooper. She's _sensitive_ to that sort of thing," Sherlock said to him, standing straighter and putting an arm around her shoulders and leading her out and down the stairs. "Alright?"

"Yeah. Just don't want the echoes of my work home with me."

Back outside, a cloud drifted to cover the sun, briefly shrouding them in its shadow. "You should have gotten an agent, Molly," Sherlock told her.

"I thought the online listings would be fine."

"I suppose you're right. Look where it got you at your last place."

Whatever sadness Molly had felt earlier was replaced by a fresh wave of frustration and anger. "Don't," she said sternly. "I couldn't have known. Maybe you would've, but don't blame me for being human and not the great bloody Sherlock Holmes." She folded her arms and his hands flew up placatingly.

"I'm not-" he started. She thought he was going to be argumentative, until he heaved a sigh, saying instead, "Forgive me. That was unfair. You're not me, but be thankful for that. If I could be less me, this would be profusely easier."

"What, looking at flats?" asked Molly, naturally becoming less defensive while Sherlock's expression was on the verge of an emotion. "It's a pain in the arse no matter who you are."

"Not looking at flats," he said, imploringly, lips tightened together.

Oh.

A question began to nag at her. "I don't understand," she said. "You managed to win over Janine pretty easily from what I've heard, so why is trying this so difficult?"

At the mention of Janine, Sherlock let out an impatient sigh. "Acting. Case. Can we please never discuss Janine again? It's not relevant and frankly I've deleted at least ninety percent of my interactions with her."

Molly felt even worse for the woman than she had before.

Sherlock was keen on dropping the subject, saying, "There's one more to look at, yes? Let's go."

The cab hadn't waited, so they'd had to get a new one. Molly didn't think being half an hour early would dent anyone's plans, which was confirmed by a quick back and forth series of texts with the next owner.

She tried not to dwell on Sherlock. If he could be less him... But because he is him, the meaning of what he'd said had initially been lost until she understood what he'd been trying to say. He had meant them, together. A couple. A romantic couple. A fantasy she'd crumpled up and thrown away years ago.

Molly was forced to remind herself that Sherlock was still possibly playing a game with her, but that was actually presenting itself as less likely every day. He may genuinely want to be with her. More than anything, she felt the old fluttering in her chest at the fact that the latter was beginning to sound acceptable, that perhaps her heart was not as ossified to him as she'd hoped.

That he would openly declare his advances was...surreal. But he had done, and she agreed to allow it and now she was feeling a little exposed, apprehensive, torn, and excited. Feelings of trust and distrust were cutting a line through her nerves, however, because if she gave in and chose wrong the hurt would be unbearable.

The last unit was almost perfect. It was in a small block of flats, affordable enough, decent location, and as quiet as one would expect in a massive city. Sherlock kept his mouth shut most of the time, only requesting the empty third story flat rather than the ground floor. "Think of your safety, Molly," he'd said, before backing off completely. But there was something wrong with it, and try as she might, she couldn't put her finger on it. In the end, she'd said that she would "let them know," as if she hadn't been urgently wanting a home in which to move.

Right now, she just really wanted to go back to Baker Street, get in her pajamas, and eat in front of the fire and ruminate.

Lost in thought, Molly didn't notice when Sherlock asked the driver to stop until she'd mindlessly followed him out of the cab and went to stand next to him before the double doors of a very nice looking Italian restaurant. Not Locanda Locatelli, thank goodness. They may have been banned from there.

Sherlock hesitated in front of the doors, fingers curling and uncurling.

He'd said something about having dinner out, and the idea that a proper date was currently being attempted felt terribly daunting. This wasn't him, she thought. Sherlock didn't do romance, let alone dates, at least not by the conventional standards. And to be honest, Molly didn't want to go inside and sit with stuffy people while watching him stiltedly try his hand at dinner conversation. He was somehow taking this very differently from a casual lunch, like he was too focused, too aware. Self-conscious.

Watching his face in the reflection against the glass door, Molly soundlessly reached for his hand, hesitated, and yanked gently on the sleeve of his coat instead. He turned, a question stirring in his eyes.

"I'm a bit tired from sleeping in," Molly told him. "Let's-"

"-I can do this right," he interrupted, trying to convince her, or maybe convince himself. He did that a lot lately, especially when nervous. It struck Molly then that Sherlock really was under the impression that the only way to 'woo' a woman was through conventional means. Dates, dinners, etc. He just didn't know how or where to begin (and she dreaded the idea that he would ever suggest the cinema). To deny him these would somehow imply that he was incapable, and incapable of being genuine, in the pursuit itself.

To allow it was to suggest that Sherlock should no longer be himself, and that was a can of resentment she didn't want to open. Besides, she liked him just as he was, always had. The problem had never been whether or not she liked him; it was whether or not she trusted him the way he seemed to ask her to.

"Sherlock," she said, pulling on his coat until he turned and faced her and she could focus on his eyes instead of the pedestrians ambling by and throwing them curious glances. "I don't want dinner here, and frankly, I'm a little underdressed for it. Let's just go to Angelo's and get something take away."

"But isn't this what people do?" he asked. "Sitting down and talking and candles and wine in order to show affection? Or would you prefer the coffee?"

"Neither." At his bemusement, she amended herself, saying, "It's not like a date with a stranger with us, is it? It's sitting down and being surrounded by people and pretending that we don't even know each other. Maybe it works for a first date or something, but with us, it's pretending to be who we're not and the last thing I want is for you to feel like... not yourself. Don't feel like you have to change. By all means, be kind to me, but don't change. It would only make you hate me in the end."

His brow knotted harshly. "How on earth could I ever hate you?"

The way he'd said that forced Molly's heart to clench suddenly and violently. She covered the physical response with a short, breathy laugh rushing out of her. "You remember we got kicked out the last time we were at one of these?" she said, and Sherlock's expression softened considerably.

The sidewalk was beginning to turn a muted orange and blue in the fading light.

"Honestly," Molly said, "I really am knackered. I could use a bit of good food at home and gluing bits of bones together. Sounds nicer than it should, really."

Sherlock retained the gentleness in his countenance when he extended a bent arm and Molly tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. "I'd say I've been rubbing off on you, but we both know of your affinity for the dead. Care to walk home?"

"Angelo's first," Molly declared. "You've got me in the mood for Italian now."

"To be perfectly honest, I really want Thai."

"Do you?" She refrained from asking what he wanted for dessert.

As they walked along the sidewalk, passing slight dwindling London traffic with the sun setting beyond gray clouds and a fuliginous city skyline, neither Sherlock nor Molly had realized when their hands slipped down between them, fingers loosely curling together. Sherlock was still playing over in his mind the word Molly had used for Baker Street.

She'd called it home.

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AN: Yeah, I'm sorry, not much happened here. I thought about rewriting the whole chapter, but then it would've turned into some 7,000 word monstrosity and really, that turns into work and THAT'S just a recipe for an abandoned story. Anyway, I get to respond to signed reviews, but not guests, so I'd like to thank the guests who reviewed last chapter. And of course, to everyone following and favoriting and reading.

Oh, and Happy New Year! Who's hung over!?


	8. Chapter 8

AN: Surprise early update! I've got some fluffy sap here for you guys.

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It was raining torrentially when John Watson visited Baker Street. He could hear Molly talking to Mrs. Hudson, trying to convince her that she was perfectly capable of changing and washing the sheets on the bed herself. Mrs. Hudson, kind landlady-not-housekeeper that she is, pretended not to have a clue what the pathologist was on about.

Toby sat languidly on the stairs. John reached over to give him a pet as he walked by and gave pause at a couple of bare patches where there used to be fur.

There was a trail of water drippings up the stairs, leading to the coat rack and unused umbrellas just outside the sitting room door. The little cylindrical bin would never ordinarily warrant a second glance, but John's eye caught the unmistakable shape of a long bone. He reached in and pulled out a femur. _Huh._

Door partially ajar, John rapped against it with one end of the femur as he pushed in. Sherlock was fiddling with the base of a six foot metal pole erected beside the fireplace.

"This yours?" he asked and Sherlock looked up.

"Oh!" The leg bone was tossed like a baton and Sherlock caught it deftly, housecoat flapping around his legs as he immediately passed John to the landing. "Molly!" he shouted down the stairs. "John's found our missing part!"

"Wonderful," echoed the reply. "I was getting bone tired looking for it!"

Sherlock had a baiting smile when he shouted back, "Would you say its time here would've been brief?"

"I'd say it would have been e-femur-al!"

Oh, great, they were both insane. John rubbed a hand over his face and turned into the kitchen where he was faced with a full ribcage mounted along an entire length of vertebra. It was splayed on the island table like the remnants of a cannibalistic dinner and he was just in time for pudding. Chocolate drizzled heart, perhaps.

"John, will you pass me the ribs?" Sherlock called from his contraption and not like he was sitting to his left at a luncheon held for a group with a taste for human flesh.

John breathed through his nose and did as asked, picking up the surprisingly sturdy skeletal torso and holding it out like a live bomb. He could see little bubbles of glue where pieces attached, pieces which were wildly dissimilar. Sherlock took the Frankenskeleton and hung it on the pole, standing back and approving his handiness like a man who'd gotten the television mounted on the wall.

Molly stepped up behind him. "Looks good."

"We can attach his extremities once all the rest of the parts are gathered."

"'His?'" Molly cocked her head. "Some of those are women's bones, why not 'her'?"

"As you like, Molly, but the skull's name is Billy."

"Billy can be a girl's name. Billie. With an I and an E."

John looked gruesomely at both of them. "Why not just 'it'?"

That comment was met with simultaneous outcries of _"Gender equality doesn't end after death!"_ from Molly and, _"Really, have some compassion, John,"_ from Sherlock.

_Sherlock._

Of all people.

Insane. Both of them.

Refraining from any commentary, John reached into his jacket and extracted a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Molly. "Got to talking with a patient of mine. He's leaving for the States and giving up his flat in a couple weeks. I thought you might be interested in the details."

Molly unfolded it and her eyebrows shot up. "This isn't far from Smithfield at all."

John reached back in his pocket and tossed a button to Sherlock. "Found that in the car."

"Your coat button," Molly recognized. "I can sew that back on later, if you'd like." She went back to reading the ad. "One bedroom. ...This is the asking price? Really? What's wrong with it?"

Sherlock came up behind her, reading over her shoulder, face impassive. Before he could try and point out anything negative, John said, "Nothing, far as I know. He seemed to think he owed me for doing my job and after I told him about a friend's situation - well, your's - he sort of just offered."

"I know this area," Molly said, increasingly delighted. "I'll set up a time to see it, soon as I can. Thank you, John!"

She hugged him, exuberant.

That was when John noticed something very strange about Sherlock.

He was staring at Molly. It was the sort of stare that both chilled and burned, the kind that screamed for something that couldn't be named and morphed into the look of a scheming man who'd do anything to get what he wanted.

The second Molly released him, it was gone. Had he imagined it?

Sherlock went to his violin, picked it up, and began to play.

Molly went to make tea and John considered following her to the kitchen, but the mess of adverts on the coffee table caught his eye. Every inch of its surface was shrouded by listings and catalogues and brochures. Notes were scrawled on them with a heavy red felt marker in Sherlock's hand.

**"NEEDS RENOVATING"**

**"DANGEROUS AREA"**

**"SOLVED A MURDER HERE ONCE"**

**"NO"**

Some ads were simply scribbled over into obscurity and two were crumpled into balls on the floor and he couldn't tell how many were used as kindling in the hearth. The pin dropped. A voice sounding very much like Mary's chimed in his brain, echoing, _"I'd say he's bloody well in love with her."_

"Oh my god," he breathed in awe, quiet enough that Sherlock failed to hear him over the violin.

Everything fell into place like puzzle pieces, like one of Sherlock's cases, like a well laid brick wall: The time Sherlock nearly beat a man to death in the morgue. His regard for Molly, staying late nights with her in the lab, the gentleness in his eyes when he watched her, occasionally following her to the morgue. Inviting her to stay at Baker Street with him.

But something felt a little insidious and John harbored more than one suspicion.

And without a doubt, the minute he'd leave the flat, Sherlock was bound to talk Molly out of this most recent and very convenient opportunity.

There was a lull in the music. "Sherlock," John called, "Get dressed. We're going for a walk."

The violin made an unseemly screech as the bow was pulled away. Sherlock turned and looked at John like he might've misheard him. "It's raining."

"Yes, well, you've got umbrellas, haven't you?"

"No."

"I found a femur in a pile of brollies, Sherlock."

The violin was set down to lean against the nearby bookcase. "I meant 'no', I don't want to go for a walk, so unless you've got a very good case - and I do mean nothing less than a nine - then I've got tarsals to put together." He flipped the bow in the air, caught it, and placed it beside the violin.

John glanced at the kitchen where Molly studiously pretended not to overhear. "Molly!" shouted John. "One of Mary's friends is throwing a singles' party, but she's short on women and she's wondering-"

"-Molly, I'm stepping out for a bit, don't wait up!"

* * *

><p>Sherlock was looking up at the sky.<p>

They'd just gotten to the Outer Circle of Regent's Park when the rain began to let up. The shirt that Sherlock had thrown on was hastily buttoned and not quite tucked in all the way and his socks were mismatched. He'd grumbled his way out of the flat as Molly watched, three mugs of tea ready on the counter. Sherlock asked her to keep his hot for when he returned, but go ahead and toss John's – he would not be coming back.

To make matters more embarrassing, he'd kissed her on the forehead (out of habit at this point) thinking John had been waiting downstairs when he'd actually been leaning outside the door jamb. Molly had gone a whole new shade of red.

Sherlock folded up the umbrella which John had shoved at him, opting to feel the drizzle in the air. "Well?" he prompted. "Let's hear your deductions and I'll tell you if they're correct."

John peered at him. "You have feelings for Molly."

"No," said Sherlock, "That's a conclusion. What are your deductions? How did you come to that result?"

With an aggravated rush of air, John stopped and said angrily, "Jesus, Sherlock, you're treating her like a case!"

_No, I'm not._ But Sherlock only offered his resolutely blank face.

John accepted the silence as response. They resumed their steady pace.

"Fine," John growled. "It was the listing papers at Baker Street. It's the way you follow her to the morgue when she thinks you're in the lab. It's just – it's a lot of things, abstract things that you probably can't wrap your superhuman brain around. It's because it's perpetual Day of the Dead at Baker Street." Then John laughed a shallow laugh and said, "But you know what's the most telling?"

Sherlock stared ahead as answer.

"It's the way you look at her."

In a last ditch effort of aloofness, Sherlock responded by shrugging and saying, "Whether it's to do with appearance or another's gaze, looks can be deceiving."

"Is that what you're doing? Deceiving her?"

Idly and without conscious thought, Sherlock felt the outside of his coat pocket where an invoice was still folded.

"Because here's what I don't get," John continued. "I think you really care. I think you may actually, genuinely have feelings for a woman like a flesh and blood man, but I think you've screwed up because you always think the end justifies the means. I think you're keeping a big fat secret and you know what? No matter what you think, it'll only do more harm than good in the long run."

Suddenly, the air rushed out of him. "What kind of secret do you think I'm keeping, John?"

"Something to do with her stuff. From when Molly was robbed blind."

Sherlock felt the temperature drop to nitrogen proportions. It'd already been so cold, but now it was arctic, and his insides were screaming at the pounding of his heart. John couldn't know. Could he? Had he rubbed off on him too much? With a voice heavy and thick, Sherlock prodded. "What about Molly's things?"

"You tell me." John's grip on the umbrella tightened. "Or at least you better start figuring it out, because you're more than capable of finding out where it all is and who did it. So why aren't you even trying?"

Okay. So John didn't really know. At least, he didn't know the worst of it, and that was somehow both disappointing and relieving at the same time.

The silence on Sherlock's end was misconstrued as reluctance. "You don't have to tell me that you care about her out loud," John said. "I'm surprisingly convinced, whether you admit it or not."

"No," Sherlock replied. "No, it's fine. If I can confirm it verbally before Mycroft, then there's no sense in your being kept in the dark. At least you might actually be on my side."

John gave him a pained smile. "Let's not be hasty about picking sides. Not that I'd ever have the same pissy views on - well, anything - the way Mycroft does. But you still haven't told me why-"

"-Because she doesn't love me anymore," and as he said it he hoped that the statement was being reversed. "May have never done and the distance she'd been insisting upon was becoming cavernous."

"And that's why you bullied her-"

"-I did not bully her! Why does everyone assume I've bullied her?"

John's look was both unimpressed and chiding, coincidentally the makings of a great father so far.

"Fine," Sherlock bit out. "I get it, but I'm trying to be ...better. And if I may finish, yes, I saw an opportunity and I took it. Molly needed to stay somewhere and I needed a chance to express - to make amends and – no, ah..." By this time Sherlock had stopped and begun pacing frenetically. "I wanted to convince her not to give up on me. I want to be on the same page as her, John. But I'm always losing my place."

"Relationships aren't books you just read."

"I know that."

"Have you told her? As in talked about it instead of sneaking in a peck on the forehead?"

This was where Sherlock wanted to the end the conversation, but John wasn't likely to let the matter drop. It was too heavy for him to ignore, if only because John would undertake his duty of friendship on Molly's behalf and help her, or because the same duties applied to Sherlock in keeping the detective morally north.

Sherlock knew he would disappoint them both.

"I've told her," he admitted. Then, exhaustively and entirely beyond his comfort zone, he said, "I'd prefer not to speak of what's transpired, so don't ask any further. Please."

John looked as if he struggled with that request. He nodded. "Just work on helping her get her things back, Sherlock. It's not right, forcing her into spending time with you."

Rarely had they ever endured a more somber walk back to Baker Street, but it wasn't entirely silent, and John agreed not to speak a word of the situation to Mary. She'd either give Sherlock absolute hell or corner Molly for information, but luckily John was mature enough to recognize the sensitivity of the people involved. "It's enough of an imbroglio as it is," Sherlock had said, waiting as John received an order of sandwiches during a stop at Speedy's. "God knows what Lestrade has wondered about."

John hadn't commented on that, but he did hand his friend a sandwich and advised him to give it to Molly to take for work.

They parted at the front door and John left for home, to Mary and Alex. When Sherlock entered 221B, Molly was fully dressed for her shift in slightly unflattering brown trousers and a bright pink jumper. Her ability to purchase clothes and dressing herself had not improved after a new start, apparently, not that it bothered him at all. In fact, it had become somewhat endearing and that was as strange a feeling as any he'd been encountering these days.

Something akin to doubt struck him again, bleeding into fear as he delved into a more than probable 'what if'. What if securing Molly's affection failed to be enough to forgive him? What if his terrible idea would be enough for her to hate him forever? Because if his failed judgement in the manner of his reunion with John was any indication, then perhaps he needed to rethink his idea of social encounters.

_I need to find a way to procure her things without suspicion to myself_, Sherlock thought. But that felt far worse than telling the truth.

But it'd be far worse to lose her. This was not a problem he dealt with often.

Conflicted and overcome, Sherlock placed the sandwich box on the counter as Molly reheated his mug of tea. He probably looked like he needed it, damp and cold as he was, but in that immediate moment he wanted something else to warm him.

As Molly turned from the microwave, mug gripped between her occupied hands, Sherlock moved into her space. Cupping her cheeks in both hands, he stooped over and very tenderly pressed his lips to hers. While chaste, it was also lingering and left her slightly flushed, staring up at him in bewilderment as he drew away.

Sherlock's hands slipped down to her arms as he remained close. "I'm sorry," he said, not sounding the least bit apologetic. "I know I said I wouldn't push, but was that okay? May I do that once in a while?"

To his immeasurable delight, Molly nodded, albeit hesitantly. Sherlock hummed in approval, pulling his tea from her warmed hands as he made for the sitting room.

Neither of them mentioned it before she'd left for work. Neither of them mentioned it when she came home during the small hours of the morning, even though Sherlock had been wide awake and screening emails on his laptop. Instead, she'd greeted him, stashed a bone in its appropriate tin, and got ready for bed. Just before going upstairs, however, she approached him where he sat between the tall windows of Baker Street, nightly glow contrasting against the warm lamps that broached the shadowy corners of the flat. He looked up at her, and she did the last thing he expected.

Shyly but assuredly, Molly returned his earlier kiss, told him goodnight, and went to bed. It had been just as sweet, sudden, and gentle, and he'd frozen in his spot watching the door long after she'd disappeared behind it.

He may have welcomed her (and her cat) into his home, but she was welcoming him back into her very, very good graces and that was far more than he ever - would ever - deserve. She would realize it, too, eventually, but he shoved that terrible, truthful voice into the back of his mind in the effort to simply feel this sort of friendship-but-so-much-more. This was what he never thought he could have; the affection of a woman who _knew_ him.

He'd been winning her over, kindling an ember, and finally feeling its warmth.

* * *

><p>The morning went as it usually did these days when Sherlock didn't have a case and Molly didn't have work. An Erlenmeyer flask had something bubbling in it, which Sherlock watched intently. Molly was poaching eggs on the stove. She was unusually quiet, though. Nervous? Why would Molly be nervous?<p>

_Oh._ "You're meeting your mother today," he recollected.

Eggs. Water. Sizzle. Molly was enraptured by those eggs.

"Molly?"

"Hm?"

"You've no obligation for rapprochement with your mother, you know."

"D'you want any bacon?"

"I- no, thank you." Sherlock began pouring baking soda into the bubbling flask. It really was going to fizz over, frothy white too close to the lip of the glass. "We don't even have bacon."

"Oh. No, we don't, do we?"

The bubbles settled into a nice simmer. The yellow, sunny yolks of the eggs glazed with white.

Sherlock said no more on the pending reunion as they consumed eggs and jam on toast. He briefly considered staying in his pajamas and housecoat for the rest of the day, but he'd gotten a text from Lestrade about a body found at the dead end of an alley. Sherlock had told Molly as much, and she claimed there was an ironic metaphor about life in there somehow. He left early.

For Molly, life was tying her insides up into knots. Sherlock being, dare she say "sweet" on her, was nearly overwhelming. It also felt incredible and scary and treacherous.

And traitorous.

And nice.

She'd not wanted to feel for him again, but he'd made it so difficult to resist. He was irritating some days, exciting on others, and quiet and contemplative the next. Sometimes he was strangely...cautiously affectionate. Like he was afraid of her, or maybe himself. But if Molly were honest and she were to be held down against the sofa like before, she wasn't entirely sure there would be an objection.

She felt like she'd gone and dug her grave again and it was a hell of a lot deeper than six feet.

As much as thoughts of Sherlock pervaded her mind lately, it all took a bit of a back seat while she dressed and readied to meet her mother. It was a slightly late lunch, but that suited her fine, and it emptied Speedy's enough for easy conversation, or as easy as conversation could be under the circumstances. Not that the place was ever particularly busy.

Toby watched her remove the lint from her dark blue and lavender striped jumper. Makeup fresh and hair down, Molly stepped outside into the gray light, leaving her coat upstairs.

She waited at Speedy's for forty minutes.

Two cups of coffee and half a sandwich went by before Molly ordered herself a side of Don't Cry. It was, however, a comfort that if she did no one would notice. Certainly not the group of teens chattering about video games, the couple on a lunch date, or the man hunched behind a newspaper.

It was just as she heaved a final, self-pitying sigh that a straight-backed, red haired woman pushed through the door, a supercilious gaze narrowly cast around the shop. It took Molly more than a few moments to recognize the expensively dressed woman as her mother.

They made eye contact, and suddenly they were sitting across from one another and Molly could see the new cracks of age lining her mother's face.

Not knowing how to start, she said, "Hello, Mum."

The smile on the older woman's face was tight. "Hello, Molly. I hear it's Doctor Hooper, now, isn't it?"

"Yes." Molly allowed herself to beam.

"You actually became a pathologist."

"Yes. I, ah, I get to study some interesting things. Forensic pathology is fascinating." Her smile held in cautious optimism. Her mother's was held by what seemed a great strength of will. "How are you?"

"I've remarried," she stated. "I met a man and we recently moved to Manchester."

"Oh," Molly nodded and waited to see if she'd continue. She did, but it wasn't the way Molly had expected or hoped.

"Listen, I'm going to be honest," said her mother. "I'm not here to reconcile. I've cut you and your brother out of my Will. I want you to know that, should anything happen to me."

And there it was, all the meanness bluntly stated like a brick to the back of the head. Molly realized she wasn't as shocked as she'd anticipated. She cracked a humorless smile. "Are you dying?"

"Don't be stupid," was her mother's reply. "After the trouble you caused when your father died, I can only hope the same thing doesn't happen when it is my time to go."

"What, is your husband going to cheat on you while you're on your deathbed?" Molly replied tersely. "Because I don't think I could possibly tell anyone who'd care and stir up trouble. And don't pretend as if I've ever wanted money or, or anything from you. You caused your own problems."

Her mother scowled. "You couldn't keep your mouth shut and now my own son still refuses to speak to me."

"You were sleeping with another man!" Molly hissed, outraged. "Dad was dying, and you left!"

"He was sick for over a year," her mother explained, falsely aggrieved. "I'm flesh and blood, and I had needs like any other woman."

"He had needs, too," Molly said. "He needed his wife beside him in his last moments. You weren't there."

She waited, watching her mother's face for an emotion other than disdain and contempt. The cold eyes she'd been lucky enough to forgo inheriting stared back.

"You really never loved him," sighed Molly, long since disheartened. "Did you?"

"At least I loved your brother."

"Yes, well, Richard hates everyone now, not much love there."

And just to be biting, her mother said, "Nor is there much love in a failed engagement."

Molly had been toying with her empty coffee mug. She banged it against the table in shock. "Who are you hearing this from?"

"The papers, where else?" her mother shrugged. "Tabloid fodder is made up of the people associated with that detective. The one you're living with."

_There's no point to this_, Molly thought. _She's mean. She's always been mean. How have I forgotten that?_

Molly slipped out of her seat and stood for a moment. Timorously, she told her, "Sherlock Holmes is too good of a man for you to speak about. Excuse me. This was obviously a mistake."

Slowly, and with an unusual amount of effort, she walked out of the shop where the rain felt more inviting than the presence of her own mother.

Across the eatery, Sherlock folded his newspaper, moved across the floor, and told the red-headed woman in a voice clear and calloused, that should she ever deign to contact Molly in the future, her current husband would know just how short her business trip had actually been. Because it certainly wasn't a month. Then again, he was frequently bored. He might do it just for the sake of doing it.

That was the abridged version; many more words were left hanging over her head when he'd left.

Outside, Sherlock was surprised to find Molly pacing in the gentle rain by the steps of Baker Street. Seeing him approach, she shrugged in an effort to seem unaffected. "Well? Go ahead and say it. 'I told you so.'"

He only felt a little guilty. "You knew I was there."

"No one reads the same side of the paper for that long. And I could see your shoes."

"Didn't think you'd notice."

"Took me a while to start guessing."

Sherlock stepped closer to her. "Are you alright?"

Molly began nodding her head erratically, straining in the effort to keep from frowning her way to a sob. The want to provide something, anything, overtook him and he reached out, pulled her mouth to his and kissed her with something better defined as comfort rather than lust. When she responded with lips molding pliantly against his, hands bunching into his jacket, he decided there was a lot more comforting to practice at upstairs.

Sherlock took her hand, pulled her through the door, up the stairs, and into the flat.

The door slammed shut and he pressed her against it, briefly trying to see her eyes, to confirm permission to do this, but she only reached up and deepened the kiss with an eagerness that startled him, shivering when her nails gently scratched along the base of his skull.

Strands of damp hair clung to her forehead and he swept them away, gliding his fingers through untangled locks and down her back, grazing the hem of her jumper until suddenly he was stroking the softness of her skin, warm beneath the palm of his hand as she shuddered against him. They parted for breath, only to lock together again in a frenzy of panting and teeth and tongues. In a brief moment of clarity, he remembered that he'd honestly meant to comfort, but it was suddenly turning out far differently and very frantic and something wasn't right.

Between the urgent hands that pushed his jacket from his shoulders and the remarkably interesting sounds wrung from Molly's throat, Sherlock couldn't tell if his mind was numbing or sharpening.

This was going somewhere, he thought. And he knew where, but something still felt wrong, despite how right it felt when he attached his lips just beneath her jaw while her fingers fought with the buttons of his shirt. He tried to lead her to the sofa. She pulled him the other way. "No," she breathed. "Bedroom."

Like a sun catcher, something glistened beneath her eye when she turned.

Sherlock stopped, catching his breath. "You're upset."

"Of course I'm upset," she said, as if it had nearly everything to do with the way she'd just been moving against him. It was as Sherlock had begun to suspect, but that didn't lessen the slight sting of disappointment. He could get over that.

Molly gripped his hand, tried to pull him to the bedroom again with urgency, but Sherlock drew her into his hold and locked her there, feeling the puzzlement burning from her like a radiator. "We're not doing that," he said regretfully into her hair.

She slumped against him. "Why...?"

"Because I-" he shut his eyes and sighed. Backed her to the sofa where his hold never wavered and he lay down, forcing her between his body and the back of the couch. Everything was quiet for a moment, cooling the flushing of his skin and the physical evidence of his want. The rain pattered against the windows. "I've never _been_ with someone before, Molly," he gently admitted.

"...Sex?" she guessed.

"Yes."

From her position, she had to speak against his chest. The warmth of her breath was distracting. "Never, ever?"

"I never really wanted to, until now," he said. "I know that's considered unusual by societal standards. I do. But nevertheless, when, if we do that, if you want to, I need you there. I can't have your mind a million miles away in a darker place. I'd like to know that my company was chosen, not just convenient."

"I can't really do meaningless sex, if that's what you're saying." Molly replied, hurt.

"I know," he said. "That's not what I'd meant to imply. I just need you with me. All of you, undivided. Do you understand?"

She sighed against him. "Yeah, I do," she responded. "I'm sorry. Have I- Did I make you uncomfortable?"

"I wasn't uncomfortable."

There was a pause and Molly squirmed. "I'm uncomfortable. This sofa is going to take forever to dry."

Sherlock released a breathy laugh into her hair. He relaxed his hold and Molly eventually sat up, a curious look on her face as she gazed down at him.

"So," she started uncertainly. "Um, if we had gone that far, do you – do we have any, ah, you know, prophylactics?"

Oh. He hadn't thought of that. He hadn't thought things would progress the way they had. "No..."

Molly smiled with a touch of disappointment, light from the window shining across her face. There was a quiet pause as she suddenly reverted to shyness. She climbed meekly over him, momentarily straddling his legs and he sat up, knocking her over to the other side of the sofa and pulling her back to him. "Don't do that," he said.

"Don't do what?"

"Shy away from me."

"Sorry," she mumbled. "I'm a little embarrassed."

He fixed that by dipping down and kissing her again, closely and carefully and comfortingly until she went lax against him.

She pulled away after a moment with a hum. "Tell me about your case this morning," she said, contented.

"Now?"

She nodded.

So he did. He told her about the body, about the sparse trail of blood and the impact wounds that meant a fall from a building. A shred of green fabric had been clutched in his hand when he'd died, and Sherlock determined that it'd been a tear from an awning. It'd taken nearly three hours to follow the trail, it'd been cleaned up so well. Once the damaged awning was found over a window amongst some well-to-do flats, it'd only been a matter of confronting – and arresting – the man's son who lived there.

"How'd he get to the alley?" Molly asked.

"Dragged there in the middle of the night and left behind the skip," he told her. "The son thought he was due an inheritance. He's getting a Court hearing instead."

"Justice."

She really did enjoy hearing about his cases.

How could he ever risk losing that?

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

AN: I may not have another update for a couple weeks. I'm sorry. I will try to write quickly, but I'm also drawing a lot and my day job is a bitch.


	9. Chapter 9

AN: So, this chapter ran away and became a casefic. It also started to get very long, so I had to separate it into two parts, the second of which is not quite yet done, but I'll be on it.

**Warning: Unintentional drug use AND FLUFFY SAP.**

...

* * *

><p>...<p>

In the days that followed, Sherlock realized that what Almost Happened would have proven hasty. Condoms not included.

Molly had become nervous around him when they were alone in the evenings. She wasn't avoiding him exactly, but he wondered, if what almost happened had actually happened, then she'd have been running out of the flat and drowning in regret. Then again, he also might be over thinking the entire thing.

He still kissed her in the mornings though, and she kissed him before going to bed. They carried on, moved forward. It wasn't enough.

So Sherlock dragged her along on a case.

"Is it dangerous?" Molly had asked when he'd assisted her with that hideously striped coat.

"Of course not," was his answer. "What kind of date would that be?" And he'd held the door open for her as she recovered from a brief bout of shock. _Oh._ He'd apparently forgotten to mention that it was, in fact, a date.

Sighing and assuming a thoughtful look, she said, "No wonder everyone thought you and John were gay."

The client they visited lived in a posh house in North London. There was a lovely garden surrounded by a tall iron fence, wherein there resided two aging boxers who snuffled and sniffed and wagged their stumpy tails when Molly leaned down to pet them. A life sized statue of a woman swathed in a veil and robed fairy-like finery gazed down at them.

Two aging women hobbled out to greet them. "You must be Mr. Holmes," the one with the beehive hairdo said excitedly. "Glad you've made it, come in, Oona's getting us tea, aren't you, Oona?"

The other woman, Oona, narrowed her eyes. "I'm always getting the bloody tea. Nice to meet you," she said, holding out her hand. Sherlock took it with a polite shake. "I'm Oona, this is Aggie. I was real pleased you took my call. Always heard Sherlock Holmes doesn't take calls, he does those new things, like the emails, but with the fancy mobiles with the keyboards, what are they-"

" - Texting," Molly supplied, and Sherlock thought she seemed rather amused.

"Yes, that's it, texting. Haven't got one of those kinds of mobiles. Mine flips. Real simple, easy to use. That way, no one bothers me to do googling or face check or what have you."

Aggie tapped her walking stick on the stone pathway impatiently. "No one wants to face check you anyway! Tea! You two, come inside!"

Normally, Sherlock was not one to sit in a client's home, quaintly drinking tea. Besides the incredibly boring attempts at small talk on the client's side, there was always a chance for a good poisoning if someone were inclined to try and off him. These two women seemed harmless, however, and by the look of their kitchen from the sitting room in which he sat, there was likely nothing more dangerous than a bottle of sherry. He sniffed his cup anyway and watched from the corner of his eye as Molly became engrossed in a staring contest with one of the boxers.

Aggie and Oona sat opposite of them, shadowed by the overcast light that struggled in through the lace curtained windows.

"You said someone's been attempting to sneak into your garden," Sherlock began. "Not the house itself."

"Right," said Oona. "The dogs go nuts at night when they hear someone, so we've been lettin'em out to have a chase."

"The gate rattles terribly when someone tries to come in," said Aggie.

Sherlock placed his tea on the table and pressed his hands together. "What makes you think this person is ignoring the house entirely?"

"We've got a small garden," Oona explained. "And we're not exactly spring chickens anymore, are we? Do you know how long it takes me sometimes to get out of bed? And Aggie here's got a bad hip, so she's not right quick, but then the doctor did say that she'd be better if she took those-"

"-So you hear the dogs go off," Sherlock interrupted before the explanation could be derailed. "And you sleep on the second floor. The time it takes to reach the door is ample for a robber to break in, but he doesn't. He's also not worried about the dogs until you manage to let them out, so he's looking for something in the garden, something he knows he wouldn't have too much time to search for. So, something in plain sight."

Aggie and Oona both looked impressed. Sherlock glanced covertly at Molly in search of her admiration.

The dog was still staring at her, slowly inching his smushed boxer face closer and Sherlock was slightly alarmed that she'd be bitten. Instead, a long pink tongue crept out from beneath a set of graying jowls and licked her on the nose. She smiled in delight. Sherlock turned his attention back to his clients.

"If I might be allowed to investigate the perimeter of your home?"

With enthusiastic permission, Sherlock was soon walking along the stone path that circled the house. The gaps and cracks were large enough to allow thick patches of grass to spring up between them. Spongy ground cover overtook the edges of the path, while vines spiraled up the walls of the house, the trees, and the gate that shrouded the property from outside eyes.

In addition to the large statue of the fey-like woman, many other statuettes circled the garden, though much smaller and often veiled by hedges and other foliage. Shaped like gnomes and cats and creatures, some of them appeared to have been recently overturned. Sherlock snapped a picture of a footprint too large to be female and Molly scribbled down the shoe size on a notepad.

The snuffling boxers trailed after them like besotted children, touching noses to various statues, but leaving them otherwise undisturbed.

"Lovely, aren't they?" Molly said as she observed a mischievous stone goblin.

"Very whimsical," he replied. "Made by the same artist, it looks like. They're not being stolen, just-"

"-This one's damaged."

Sherlock looked to the one Molly indicated. A gnome with a hand missing and a large crack through the head lay on its side. "Someone's trying to break them," he realized.

Molly looked scandalous at the thought.

"Mrs. Fieldsmith, Mrs. Bartell," Sherlock called. "Are any of these figures missing? Or are they all accounted for?"

"Nothing's missing," replied Oona. "Lowry makes all the statues himself and they cost quite a bit; I'd know if something went missing. He always makes them out of this stone, see, and some of the-"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock waved her to quiet. Striding over to her beside the home's back door and up two paved steps, he found a decent vantage point over the garden. "And did this same sculptor make the garden's centerpiece as well?"

Everyone looked to the elegant carving of the robed woman. "Well, yes," said Oona.

Molly was the closest to the statue. She approached it, the toes of her shoes bumping into the large pedestal on which it sat, and she leaned in close to run her fingers over an outstretched arm. "It looks like it was put together in pieces," she said. "That can't be right."

"There must be something inside," said Sherlock. Obviously, it was the only statue that couldn't simply be picked up and carried off, which meant whoever had been skulking around finally figured out the same, evidenced by the lack of missing statuettes. "Who ever was here had been breaking the smaller statues as if looking for something. I highly doubt they'd go through the trouble simply to vandalize. This one here must be the only one they hadn't suspected, probably due to its size." Quietly, he thought out loud. "It's not solid stone, then. It's hollow."

Peering closer, hand fully on the arm, Molly squinted. "You're right!" she called. "I think there's a crack here. It looks like it was covered with – what is this? Bit of plaster dust?"

As Sherlock began to make his way over, reaching in his coat for a magnifying glass, he watched Molly lean slightly against the arm of the statue for a closer look, and that was when everything generally went south. "Molly," he warned, "Perhaps you shouldn't-"

The arm broke.

It broke in a cloud of white dust as Molly sputtered and coughed and tumbled to the ground. Sherlock reached the gasping woman in seconds.

"Are you alright?" he asked demandingly, wiping at her face with a glove covered hand and tasting a bitterness in the air. She batted him away.

The statue's arm lay beside them, where the grass curled around dozens of small bags, filled stark white and niveous against the green. One bag lay torn on the jagged edges of the broken arm, its contents dusting a two foot wide perimeter like snow. Faintly among the sound of Sherlock's heart beating erratically, he could hear Aggie and Oona shuffling towards them, their boxers bounding behind.

The molecular makeup of cocaine drew itself in his mind.

"Stop!" he shouted at them. "Get your dogs into the house immediately. Don't let them out. Call the police, ask for Detective Inspector Lestrade and tell him everything you've witnessed."

Oona hesitated with indecision. "Is she going to be alright?"

"Yes, but I need to look after her. Tell Lestrade I was here and do not come out of your home until police arrive, do you understand?"

He must have sounded very serious (as he should) because as good at talking as the two women were, they were even better listeners, frantically herding the boxers inside and slamming the door shut. Sherlock pulled a very worried Molly up and over to a fixed garden hose where he soaked his scarf and washed her face with it.

"Sherlock," she demanded, pushing at him, "That's not what it looked like. It can't be, can it? It's not. Tell me it's not."

She was going to murder him. She was going to murder him and he actually hoped she'd get away with it. "I'm taking you to a hospital."

She glanced over at the mess, shaking. "Oh, god, It's really _not_ plaster dust."

"No, it's not. I don't know how much you've inhaled or, ah, insuflated and I'm not taking any chances. Hospital, now, let's go." He gave her the wet scarf and she frantically scrubbed herself and he cursed something about cabs before banging on the clients' door. He'd gotten as far as the words "I require the use of your-" before a set of car keys were shoved at him.

It was a fifteen year old micra that Sherlock drove Molly to a hospital in. Rather strange for a pair of very rich women, but dwelling wasn't exactly warranted.

He divided his attention between the pathologist and the road, constantly asking if she was alright and immensely concerned at her silence. He'd worry about his impending murder later. "Can you tell me how you're feeling?" he asked.

Molly swayed in her seat. "I feel... Um, actually, I'm feeling pretty good. Like a not normally good sort of way."

"Do you feel sick?"

"Don't take me to Barts. I don't want people talking."

Barts was too far and out of the way anyhow. Had Molly been sober, she'd have noticed, so Sherlock didn't reply.

He'd pulled into the car park and Molly leaned against him as he helped her inside and checked her in. By the time a nurse came to retrieve her, she had him in a full embrace, nose pressed into his shirt and succumbing to a bout of garrulousness. "You smell really good," she sighed.

He rubbed a hand along her back and walked her along with the nurse. "Aftershave, I suppose."

"Can I tell you something?" she said, tilting her face up and seemingly unaware of her own movement down the corridor. "I secretly enjoyed using your soap. It smells nice, like you."

"Nice like me?"

"_Smells_ nice like you, cause you use it. It's a pleasure to my olfactory senses, which I'm not sure you realize is very sensitive, and that makes you terribly appreciated. Do you know what I smell all the time? Dead people, Sherlock, and formaldehyde and sterilizing chemicals of industrious strength. You're a summer breeze in a flower field next to a shallow grave yard. Oh, god, I'm sorry for saying all that. Are they going to keep me here over night?"

"I don't think so," Sherlock answered honestly. As far as he could tell, Molly was under the influence of a fairly easy dose of cocaine rather than the potential overdose he'd been terrified of.

And he was right. She forced him into the promise of taking her home soon, so after she'd disappeared behind a set of doors and he'd given the abridged story to the attending physician, he'd waited with only his mobile as company. He made use of the time by texting Lestrade, advising him of his clients' being in potential danger. Whoever was looking for those drugs were going to come back, and if they found the stash missing, they may not leave the women in peace much longer. They had to be moved.

The fact that the women had been unbothered for this long indicated it had been a low level lackey, or perhaps even the artist himself back to retrieve his goods.

The thought was interrupted by an acknowledgement from the DI, followed by an inquiry on Molly's health.

She would be alright. Sherlock could tell by unfortunate past experience. That knowledge didn't lessen the loathsome anxiety that layered inside him.

After some time, Sergeant Sally Donovan collapsed wordlessly into a chair beside him.

"Leave her be, Donovan," said Sherlock, feeling morose, but sounding angry. "This was my fault. I'm the one who brought her along on a case."

"I'm not here to bother her," Donovan replied. "Greg's got his hands full at the house. You might've just found a chip in a massive drug ring that's been under investigation for a long time, you know that?"

"I did begin to suspect, yes."

"Anyway, I'm just sent over to ask, you gonna be on this case now?"

Sherlock paused in his scrolling of his mobile, currently on the website of a very suspicious artist. "You already know that I am. If you hadn't, you'd have texted. So I'll say it again; leave Molly alone today, Sally."

Donovan straightened her coat and crossed her legs. In an effort to seem nonchalant, she asked, "How is she?"

Sherlock looked up at her, eyebrows stitched together.

"I mean," she continued, "Is she gonna be alright? It wasn't an overdose? Couldn't get much word out of the old women as far as details go once they started rambling, but they said you looked panicked. And not once in my life have I ever seen the Freak havin' a panic."

Stashing his mobile back into his coat pocket, Sherlock resisted the temptation to pace. "She'll be fine," he said. "No threat of an overdose, as far as I can tell."

"And you'd know," the Sargeant said accusingly.

Sherlock gave up, jumping to his feet and walking back and forth as Donovan trailed him with her eyes. "Best friends with her now, are you?" he said. "I remember a time when you had nothing but contempt for her, speaking about her, laughing at her, all for the crime of fancying me. Very professional, by the way."

"You think _I_ was mean?" Donovan said angrily, "You should've heard some of the shit you used to throw at her. Compared to that, yeah, I was her best friend."

"_Used_ to, being the key word. I'd take it all back if I could!"

His shouting earned admonishing glares from the nearby hospital staff. Donovan was staring at him like he'd died and come back from the dead. Again. "I spent time with her after you died, you know," she started quietly. "Got to know her a bit. She'd been alienating herself from every person she'd ever called a friend, and we both know she's never had many of those in the first place. Can't imagine what it must've been like to be that lonely."

Sherlock looked away and nodded slightly to indicate he was still listening. He knew loneliness.

"When we found out that she helped you, that she knew everything, I only felt worse. Before that, I thought she was depressed, and I suppose she was, so I was the one meeting her at the morgue and working with her. I talked to her a bit more - a lot more. Hell, I even invited her for drinks with some friends."

Something fell into place. "You introduced her to Tom."

"Yeah," affirmed Donovan. "I was hoping she'd finally get over you and move on and she was. She was doing a real good job of it. Then you came back and everything went to shit and we found out she'd been holding onto your secret for two years. I can't imagine how closed off she had to be for that. She might've been driven mad if it weren't for Tom."

"Did she love him?"

"God, that's a weird question coming from you." Donovan sighed after a moment, saying, "I think she did, in her own way. Just a shame that she was suddenly too dazzled by you again to see it."

Faintly, Sherlock wondered why he was being needled by everyone about his past interactions with Molly. He supposed it was the universe's way of trying to humble him, now that he was embarking on some form of relationship with her. Of course, that might all be dashed, depending on how she feels once sobriety kicks in.

"What I don't understand," continued Donovan, "Is why the hell you two can't get your shit together."

Sherlock halted in the middle of his pacing. "Excuse me?"

"First she fancies you and you don't give her the time of day, then you decide you need her around and she swans off with another man-"

"-Whom you brought into the picture-"

"-and then you're sort of lukewarm with her when she's all sorts of confused, the engagement ends, you act like a total arse once again, and when she finally goes and gets her life situated and ready to move on for real, you decide you're bloody head over heels for her!" Donovan slapped her hands against her knees, leaning forward and looking remarkably observant for someone relying on hearsay. "Have I missed anything?"

Lestrade must've said something, thought Sherlock. There's no way he could be that obvious, could there? "Yes," he answered. When Donovan tilted her head back with defiant questioning, he said, "We're together, in a way. It's...mutual."

After a stint of disbelief, Donovan shook her head. "Don't hurt her," was all she said, solemnly.

The door swung opened and Molly came swaying out with the doctor who'd tended to her. She'd grinned goofily at Donovan and pulled the Sergeant into a hug, chattering incessantly at the peak of her high. The come-down wasn't going to be fun, however, so Sherlock wanted to get her home and comfortable as soon as possible.

While Molly was distracted, the doctor took it upon herself to begin advising Sherlock of her condition. There was little risk of falling into convulsions or other highly dangerous effects. No overdose. She simply had to ride it out now, keep hydrated and cool and sleep on her side, just in case. At that point Sherlock had waived the doctor off, all too familiar with the aftereffects of illicit substances, so he'd signed her out and Donovan gave them a lift to Baker Street. He'd handed her the keys to the Micra before she'd left.

He had helped her up the stairs when, at the top of the landing, she'd mumbled about the flat being too damn hot. While distractedly unlocking the door, she'd decided to divest herself of the confines of her coat and jumper, and was just getting her trousers past her knees when Sherlock frantically pulled the door open and wrapped her in his coat. If he were a blushing man, he'd be redder than Molly's Christmas lipstick.

Deciding that his bedroom was the best place to look after her, not to mention conveniently closer to the toilet, Sherlock guided her in that direction. She'd stopped abruptly in front of the bathroom, cogitating.

"I peed at the hospital," she'd finally volunteered, continuing into the bedroom and falling face first onto the bed spread.

Sherlock realized he didn't want Molly to suffer the embarrassment of waking in only her undergarments, so he said, "Have you got anything to wear for bed?" And then began thinking of the sweats she'd purchased for sleeping in and wondering how to best maneuver her into them. "Something easy, like a large t-shirt?"

"I used to," she replied, muffled against his bed and moaning, "I used to have a _lot_ of things."

Chagrined, Sherlock went to his dresser and extracted a gray t-shirt. He approached her like he'd approach a skittish animal. "You can wear this," he said, setting it aside and moving to get her in a more vertical position. He reached for the coat. "Let's get this off, shall we?"

"Oh, thank god!" she cried, relieved. With a surge of energy, she stood and tore it away in favor of the chilly air. Sherlock swallowed at the sudden view of skin, averting his eyes while Molly took hold of the shirt and pulled it roughly over her head, where it hung on her backwards, tag sticking up in the front. She collapsed on the bed again.

"Are you going to make tea?" she asked as Sherlock turned the covers down and she clambered in, kicking away the heavy duvet and leaving the sheet.

He frowned and reached a hand up to press against her forehead. "No, you're too warm. A rise in the body's core temperature is a rather common side effect."

"I had a patient who died of hyperthermia," she said.

"Did you?"

"He was a hermit with an untreated infection. I'm not going to be addicted, am I?" Molly asked with distress. "I mean, I did smoke pot once in school with a bunch of friends, but that was one time and I was just really curious, you know? I didn't get addicted or anything, except that I gorged on jelly babies. And really, '_herbal soothers_' and cocaine are on completely different levels, so-"

"-Molly," Sherlock interrupted, quieting her by taking her face in both hands. "You won't be addicted. I won't let you."

She smiled at him, which did ridiculous things to his insides, so he released her in order to fetch a very tall glass of water and a cold compress which he pressed alternatingly to different areas of Molly's head, neck, wherever he could reach. She shivered.

"Too cold?"

"Too cold."

He took a seat on the bed beside her, a little lost, having never been the one to provide care to a person suffering the effects of a powerful drug and well on their way down from the high. Molly rolled lethargically onto her back. Sherlock rolled her back onto her side.

It was obvious how the rest of the night would play out, so he retreated for a few moments to gather his laptop, whereafter he kicked off his shoes and rest against the headboard beside Molly, legs stretched out. He'd reach over every few minutes to check on her, long after she'd fallen into a fitful sleep.

As Sherlock browsed another search engine, a brief history popped up.

_'Sherlock Holmes and tabloids.' _

_'Molly Hooper and tabloids.'_

Ah. So she'd been following up on what her mother had indicated was plastered all over cheap sensationalized gossip mills. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at a link titled "**BAKER STREET BOFFIN BEDS ANOTHER!**" He did, however, click on the headline that read "**PATHOLOGIST LIVING WITH ENGLAND'S FAVORITE DETECTIVE?**"

He tensed at the first image on the screen. A zoomed in picture of Molly in a borrowed blue robe, standing before one of Baker Street's windows. The article beneath went on with the expected drivel about Sherlock having a live-in fan, a woman besotted with him, who'd faked his death certificate, broken up with her fiance over him, the next Janine, _and just when will this one be used up and tossed aside?_

He went back to his current case with a derisive scoff, deleting the search history in its entirety.

Sherlock looked up the sculptor, Ezra Lowry. Having previously found nothing of interest on his website beyond basic contact information, Sherlock took to a local arts forum and searched his name. Patrons and clients seemed to agree that his work was impeccable and fantastically inspiring, though trickling into fewer and fewer works. He'd not shown up for two exhibits and was reportedly seen with men of an unsavory nature.

Sherlock sent out a mass text containing Lowry's studio address to his homeless network. And, after finding an address for his London flat, sent that as well. They would monitor the area.

After a very long time, perhaps hours, Molly mumbled and turned to her other side, facing him, eyes slivered miserably.

"Molly?" he prompted, pushing the hair from her reddened face.

"I feel awful," she groaned. "Am I in your room...?"

He chuckled lightly and then covered it up with a cough. "Yes. More convenient if you needed to use the bathroom. A flight of stairs might've proven fatal in your condition." Depositing her on the sofa might have been an option, but Sherlock didn't share how quick it'd been dismissed.

"Oh." And she was so quiet for so long that she might have fallen asleep again. "You didn't have to, ah, care for me," she finally said.

Sherlock snorted. "I most certainly did."

"But your case just got a _lot_ bigger..."

"And I look forward to the coming legwork." He closed the laptop, setting it aside. "But what happened was my fault. I took you with me on a case without realizing how potentially dangerous it was. And I'm sorry for that." He frowned. "But did you really have to lean against that statue?"

"Oh, you were doing so well," Molly groaned, stuffing her face in the pillow and Sherlock discreetly preened over the fact that she was covertly inhaling the scent.

A pause hung in the air, a shift. "You took care of me when I was ill," he continued gently.

"And when you were drugged."

"Then I'm honored to return the favor."

She huffed and reached for his hand. Sherlock lowered himself down on the bed, facing her and letting their hands intertwine, and that was somehow more intimate than holding tightly to one another in constricting embraces. This left them room to observe, to talk in the darkness, which seemed to be what Molly needed and if he were true to himself, maybe he did, too.

"How did you ever manage it?" Molly asked hesitantly.

"I didn't," Sherlock answered. "You don't manage drug use. It took rehab and long withdrawals for me to understand that. But that's not what you meant, is it?"

"No, I guess - I mean, this feels terrible. I feel sad and scared and sick all at once. Didn't that ever override the thrill from the high?"

"I suppose some people react differently." Sherlock smoothed a hand along her arm in an attempt to soothe. "I did feel awful during a come-down. That was when I'd search for another hit, a way to escape my own mind. Heroin slowed me down, cocaine was like I was on a great chase, but there was never a chase, only a race to a finish line reserved for the succumbed and the dead."

"What made you clean up?"

"I met a long term cocaine user with one single, expansive nostril."

Molly gasped and Sherlock grinned down at her. She punched him weakly in the shoulder.

"That was actually when I'd met Lestrade," he continued. "He locked me up, and while I awaited my brother to _retrieve_ me," and he sneered at the word, "I deconstructed every man in that station, behind bars and out. Including Lestrade's wife's impending infidelity. He told me that if I ever cleaned up my act, he'd give me work. Good work and good puzzles. It took me a while to come around to that."

With an open smile, Molly said, "I'm glad for that."

"Thank you. You know the rest. You were intelligent and working on being a certified pathologist and I was-"

"-Brilliant."

"-A bastard."

Molly smiled sadly, not quite willing to refute the truth, even in the face of Sherlock's current openness and his eyes shining at her in the dark.

"You're beautiful," he said out of nowhere.

And for some reason, perhaps it was because she felt anything but beautiful lying there with a hangover, old makeup stuck to her face and teeth unbrushed, hair disheveled and head pounding...

Molly burst into tears.

She couldn't tell if they were of happiness, or sadness, or even confusion, but the raw honesty with which the words were said hung like a weight in her chest, pulling heavier before Sherlock began to panic, gathering her in his arms, shushing and muttering words she couldn't understand against her ear.

She fell asleep again, wondering how such a confusing man as Sherlock Holmes could exist. She was just glad he did.

...

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AN: So yeah, we'll get back on that case next chapter!


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